


Love and War

by setepenre_set



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 62,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setepenre_set/pseuds/setepenre_set
Summary: This is a story about two kingdoms, side by side, but worlds apart. And at war. When the Bog King finally wins his war against the Fairy Kingdom, he decides that a political marriage with the eldest daughter of the deposed Fairy King will help to promote peace. (Obviously, he's never met Marianne.)





	1. Chapter 1

The war for love is over. The Fairy Kingdom has lost.

The King of the Dark Forest has outlawed love throughout all his lands—lands which now include the former Fairy Kingdom.

So it is understood implicitly that the marriage which has been arranged between the King of the Dark Forest and Princess Marianne, the eldest daughter of the deposed Fairy King, is to be political in nature only.

Princess Marianne is not best pleased.

“But I thought you hated love,” Princess Dawn says, when the Princess Marianne has stopped swearing and throwing things.

“That! Is completely beside the point!” Princess Marianne says, eyes blazing with fury. “That doesn’t mean that I want to be _forced_ to marry this—this—”

“Maybe you’ll get along,” Dawn says, optimism undimmed in the face of her sister’s rage, “since the King of the Dark Forest hates love, too.”

Princess Marianne resumes swearing and throwing things and Princess Dawn wisely retreats from her sister’s chambers.

When Marianne has run out of breath, curses, and things to throw, she flops down on her rose petal bed and glares at the gossamer canopy over her head.

(it could be worse, a small, practical voice at the back of her mind points out. it could be Roland.)

Marianne’s scowl deepens.

She refuses to look on the bright side. She doesn’t know the King of the Dark Forest. He might turn out to be just as awful as the unfaithful former swain that Marianne left at the altar last spring.

Marianne turns over onto her stomach and considers her options.

She could run away. Pack her sword and slip out from the palace into the forest and—

—leave Dawn behind to marry the King of the Dark Forest in her place; no, she can’t do that.

All right, so she’ll take Dawn with her. Dawn, who—

—is liable to walk into the mouth of a lizard without noticing while she’s thinking of some new swain; no, bringing Dawn will never work.

She can beg her father to make one last stand against the King of the Dark Forest. If, by some chance miracle, she manages to convince him, they can wall themselves in the palace and—

—starve to death, most likely. The King of the Dark Forest arrives in two days time; that’s nowhere near long enough to prepare properly for a siege.

All right. Well. She can—

—pretend to be complacent about the marriage, and then stab the King on their wedding night.

Hmm, she likes this plan. She’ll just—

—have to nod and smile and pretend to be sweet-tempered and there is no way Marianne can manage to be that convincing; she’s bound to slip up.

So.

What is she left with?

Marianne rolls over onto her back again, frowning thoughtfully.

She is to be Queen of the united courts of the fae. Not consort. The King’s mother, who he sent as a messenger to relay the news of the betrothal, was very clear on that point.

A Queen will have power. The ability to gather supporters from both courts.

Supporters enough, perhaps, to lead a successful coup against her unfortunate husband in a year’s time or so.

Marianne rises slowly from the bed and tugs the bellrope to summon her pixies in waiting..

The three of them flutter into the room very adroitly; she suspects Dawn of having set them to wait outside of Marianne’s chambers.

“You have doubtless had conversation with the Dowager Queen’s ladies,” Marianne says, standing at her window and looking out.

Her pixies give nervous, tinkling laughs.

“This doesn’t displease me,” says Marianne. “I think it might be useful. What do the ladies of the Dowager Queen have to say about my bridegroom to be? I know almost nothing about him,” she continues, “save that he has an hatred for love. Tell me, is there anything he likes?”

“They do say he is a skilled fighter, my lady,” offers Rosa hesitantly.

Marianne taps her fingers on the window sill.

“And what is his majesty’s chosen weapon?” she asks.

“Staff.”

“Hmm,” says Marianne, thinking of the edge on her own sword. “And what else?”

Her pixies are silent for such a long moment that Marianne turns, eyebrows upraised.

“Surely he must like something besides fighting,” she says.

“His majesty is—more noted for his prejudices than his pleasures,” says Verda, with an apologetic expression.

“Oh?” Marianne says. “Does he hate more than just love?”

“They do say he dislikes singing,” says Violet.

“Singing,” says Marianne. “I see.”

“And primroses!” adds Violet. “He has a terrible aversion to primroses; can’t stand them!”

“Really,” Marianne says, “Primroses. I’ll have to remember that. Right. Get me the royal dressmaker, now, please. I need to plan my wedding gown.”

As her pixie attendants flutter from the room, Marianne smiles grimly to herself.

She cannot stop this marriage from taking place. But she can make this King regret it.

* * *

Bog does not see his bride to be until the wedding itself; he has no taste for princesses, no inclination to make polite small talk. He’ll be spending time enough with the lady when she is his wife; he has no wish to spend any with her beforehand.

So he is entirely unprepared for the Princess Marianne.

(Later, he will wonder if anyone could ever be prepared for Marianne.)

She enters the grand hall to the ringing din of a fairy choir singing, her chin upraised, her eyes glittering dangerously, and Bog actually feels his jaw drop slightly.

He had thought to ease the discontent of the former Fairy Kingdom by wedding the daughter of their defeated king, had expected to find his bride subdued and resigned.

The Princess Marianne strides towards him with her spine straight, and she looks much more conqueror than conquered.

He’s so struck by her that it takes him a long moment to even notice her gown.

It’s the sweet, floral scent that drags his attention away from her first. He knows that smell, the sickly smell that sticks in the back of his throat, makes him want to gag reflexively.

She’s wearing primroses.

Her entire gown is primroses and spidersilk, shot through with delicate gold embroidery, and the look on her face tells him that she knows exactly what she’s doing.

When she reaches him, she turns to face him and her wings snap out, sudden and fierce, like a challenge.

The scent of primroses fills his nose through the entire wedding ceremony and Marianne’s coronation.

* * *

She sits beside him at the wedding banquet and Bog can scarcely bring himself to eat for the scent of primroses. The choir sings throughout the whole meal, too. His temples throb.

“Does the music not please you, _my lord?_ ” Marianne says, managing to make the honorific sound like an insult.

He glares at her.

“No, it does not,” he says through gritted teeth.

Marianne narrows her eyes at him like a satisfied cat watching the mouse it has trapped.

“How unfortunate,” she says, “but then, very little pleases you, from what I hear.”

He growls at her beneath his breath.

“A gallant man,” Marianne says, still smirking, “would have told me ‘I am very pleased in my choice of wife’.”

“I am not,” Bog says, “a gallant man. An’ I think you have very little interest in pleasin’ me. My lady.”

“Then you should have told me that you are pleased with me,” Marianne says, “it would have been the thing most likely to displease me.”

“You’re givin’ me your own motives,” says Bog, “I don’ have a particular desire to displease you.”

“If that’s the case,” says Marianne, “then you shouldn’t have announced our engagement without consulting or even meeting me.”

“Trust me, I wouldna have made the announcement if we had been acquainted.”

Marianne smiles a sharp smile and stabs a berry with great viciousness, brings the fork to her mouth, and takes a bite.

“I’m surprised you went through wi’ it, if the marriage displeased you so much,” Bog says, watching her balefully. “You’ve got a reputation for leavin’ would-be husbands at the altar, my lady.”

Marianne skewers the next berry with even greater force.

“He was unfaithful to me,” she says. “Since you do not hold with love, I trust I will not need to worry about such things with you, my lord.”

Bog blinks.

He’d met Sir Roland, when the Fairy Court had officially surrendered, and while he had thought the man contemptible, Bog hadn’t thought him quite so stupid.

He had been unfaithful? To _this_ woman?

Bog no longer wonders at Marianne’s leaving Sir Roland at the altar. He rather wonders that she hadn’t eaten his heart while she was at it.

“You won’t,” Bog says, without thinking. “You won’t to worry about that.”

Marianne goes still, and for half a moment he thinks he saw something like uncertainty in her expression.

Then it’s gone, and she’s looking away from him, out at the rest of the banquet hall.

“I hear that you enjoy sparring,” she says.

“…I do, yes,” Bog says.

“So do I,” says Marianne, “Sword, though. Not staff. Perhaps we’ll spar together sometime.”

“Aren’t we already?” Bog says under his breath.

Marianne makes a sound like startled, smothered laughter and looks at him sidelong.

“I’d be glad to spar with you, my lady,” Bog says, “though I do hope you don’ intend to kill me.”

Marianne makes that almost-laughter sound again.

“Oh, no,” she says, baring her teeth at him in something that is almost a smile, “seriously maim you, at most.”

Bog gives a snort of laughter.

(later, he’ll look back and realize that this is when he started to fall in love with her.)

“I’m lookin’ forward to it, tough girl,” he says.

* * *

When he comes to her chambers that night, he brings his staff and her sword. The ensuing fight lasts more than an hour and ranges throughout the entire royal suite. They destroy two sets of curtains, seven decorative throw pillows, and a large sofa.

He never once suggests that he take her to bed.

(later, Marianne will look back and realize that this is when she started to fall in love with him.)


	2. Chapter 2

The morning after the wedding, the Bog King tells the two goblins who seem to serve as his personal attendants that he intends to make a proclamation announcing that the laws of the former Fairy Kingdom are now void, and that the laws of the Dark Forest will now rule both.

Marianne makes a noise of derision as she picks up her teacup.

“Somethin’ you want to say, my lady?” Bog asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Oh, nothing much,” Marianne says, “just that your idea is terrible.”

She takes a sip of tea.

“Terrible,” he repeats.

“Terrible,” Marianne says, taking another sip of tea. and raising her eyebrows at him over the rim of the cup.

“I willna' have two sets of laws for my kingdom,” Bog says.

“Oh! By all means, then, let’s waste everyone’s time arresting and trying every single one of my people who unknowingly break a set of laws that they are unfamiliar with,” Marianne says. “That should really make the populace feel content. You’ll have an armed insurrection on your hands within a week, my lord.”

“Am I supposed t’ feel threatened by that?” Bog asks. “I did win one war against your kingdom already, my lady, don’t forget.”

“ _I do not forget_ ,” Marianne says, bearing her teeth at him. “I do not _forget_ what you have done to my people with your war.”

“ _My_ war?” Bog says, “I dinnae start the war, my lady! Your father—”

“You imprisoned one of his subjects illegally! What else was he to do when you refused even to meet to negotiate for her release?”

“By my laws she was—”

“Your laws! Yours!” Marianne says, “We went to war over this once, my lord, do not doubt that we shall do so again and again and again.”

“I won the war! I can do it again!”

“No doubt you can,” Marianne says bitterly, “but I have no wish to see my people broken down by constant civil wars and uprisings.”

She takes a sharp breath, looking at his face, a sudden, horrible thought occurring to her.

“Is that what you want?” she asks. “To destroy us so completely? Demanding to marry me—was that meant as humiliation, rather than reconciliation?”

To her horror, she realizes her voice is trembling, that her eyes are filling with tears. She pushes back her chair abruptly, rises, and turns to leave.

He does not call after her, or follow.

* * *

“Sire?” Thang says.

“Leave,” Bog says.

“Er…do you still want us to give the announcement?”

“No,” Bog growls, and both of his minions scurry out, Stuff scolding Thang all the way out the door.

When they are gone, he closes his eyes for a long moment.

Humiliation. Marrying him had been a humiliation for her.

He hadn’t thought of it like that, but of course it would have been humiliating for her. Not just being forced to marry the one who had defeated her kingdom, but—

Bog is well aware that he is hideous by both goblin and fairy standards. Too much one thing, not enough the other—the fairy blood from his father’s side has come out more strongly in him than it has for any of their family members for a hundred years, making him look all wrong to any goblin. But he’s no true fairy, that much is certain, no one could mistake him for anything but an unfortunate mix of bloodlines.

Far too ugly for love or desire.

Or to be anything other than a humiliation to his new wife.

That thought hurts more than it should.

Bog sinks down into his chair and glares down at the remains of his breakfast as though this whole mess is its fault instead of his.

She’s right, too; he’s able to admit that now that his temper has cooled. It would be foolish to expect their new subjects to immediately fall into line with his kingdom’s laws.

He should have asked Marianne’s advice, instead of antagonizing her.

Bog rubs a hand over his face and rises from the table to go in search of his queen.

* * *

Marianne walks quickly down the hall from the breakfast room, fighting against tears, blindly takes a turn, then another, then ducks into a curtained alcove.

She’d thought—

Last night, when he came to her room with their weapons to spar, she’d—she’d thought that he respected her.

And when he’d left without trying to bed her, she’d thought he was being kind. But—

But non-consummation is grounds for the annulment of a marriage, she thinks, a cold feeling settling around her heart. And since her kingdom has been conquered, she is no longer queen by her own right.

Her position as queen is dependent on her being married to the Bog King.

Does he mean to use her to lull the nobility of the Fairy Kingdom into accepting him as their monarch, and then announce that the marriage is unconsummated and cast her aside when she’s served his purpose?

The curtain of her alcove moves aside. Marianne opens her mouth to send whoever it is away, and then finds herself unable to speak for outrage as Roland steps into the alcove with her.

“Buttercup—”

Marianne slaps him. It’s only a slap because of the size of the alcove, if it had been a bit bigger, she would have had room for a full punch.

“Go. Away. You absolute—”

“Now, Marianne, don’t be so upset,” Roland says, his tone coaxing. “I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Marianne hisses, but Roland just gives her his most charming smile.

“You don’t need the help of the man who commands the entire fairy army?” he drawls.

Marianne freezes.

“Oh, come on, Marianne, I know you,” Roland says, “You’d never take somethin’ like this wedding lyin’ down unless you had a plan. And I just wanted to let you know,” he twists his finger in the curl that falls over his brow, “that you can count on me, when the time comes.”

Marianne doesn’t know how to answer.

“Just think about it, Buttercup,” Roland says.

He winks at her, and then ducks back out of the alcove.

Marianne stares at the curtain for a long moment, thoughts disjointed and whirling.

It is some minutes later that she hears Bog’s goblin assistants calling her name.

“Your Highness?”

“Queen Marianne?”

She takes a breath and steps out of the alcove.

“What is it?” she says.

“The King requests your presence,” says the first of the goblins.

“In the royal library,” finishes the second. “Your Highness.”

Marianne straightens her spine and looks down her nose at them.

“When you address me,” she says icily, “you will do it correctly. And the correct term of address for a _queen_ is _‘Your Majesty’_.”

She turns without another word in the direction of the library, ignoring the chattering apologies of the two imps behind her.

* * *

“You—ah—” the Bog King clicks the claws of both his hands together in a gesture that looks almost nervous. “You were right.”

Marianne blinks.

“Right?” she says slowly.

“Abou’ the laws,” he says with a grimace. “It wouldna work, what I was thinkin’.”

“…oh,” Marianne says rather blankly.

“But I do want a single law code for the kingdom,” he says, wings moving in a quick, repressed flutter. “So I was—hopin’ that maybe you had some—less terrible ideas about how to do tha’.”

“Oh,” Marianne says again, even more blankly.

He wants—he actually wants to know what she thinks? That’s—

Marianne stomps down on the pleasure that wells up at that thought.

Of course he wants to know what she thinks. If he really intends to win over her nobility, then he’ll hardly want to waste his time with little revolutions. This is practicality on his part, nothing more.

She can be practical, too. Their goals align this far at least, Marianne doesn’t want a hundred little uprisings that will just use up their resources and accomplish nothing. She wants a single, organized, successful coup.

“We should go through the laws of each kingdom,” she says, “and decide which laws from both should be kept.”

The Bog King looks at her, and Marianne almost thinks she might see admiration in his gaze.

* * *

It takes the servants three days to bring all of the legal records from the Bog King’s palace to hers. They set the books up in the library, arranged in a pile beside the pile of the books that comprise the legal records of the fairy kingdom.

Looking at the great stacks of books to be gone through, Marianne can’t suppress a groan.

“My thoughts exactly,” Bog mutters, grimacing. “It’s gonna take a year to get through it all.”

After several hours spent going through the laws, arguing over each one, Marianne is beginning to think that a single year was a conservative estimate. They’ve only just started on the laws concerning trade regulations!

She drops her head onto the parchment of the book she’s reading from.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Bog says, “Order is an overrated thing. We should abolish all laws an’ live in a state of blissful anarchy.”

Marianne gives a startled laugh and turns her head to look at him, her cheek still pressed to the parchment.

“We could sleep in caves,” she suggests.

“An’ live off the land,” Bog continues for her, gazing pensively at the ceiling, “And no one would ever have cause to use words like ‘embargo’ and ‘reimportation’ ever ever again.”

Marianne laughs again and he turns his head and grins at her.

(his eyes look even more blue when he smiles, she thinks, absolutely inconsequently.)

She sits up.

“I’m too tired to think straight,” she says.

He makes a noise of agreement.

“It’s late anyway,” he says, “we migh’ as well leave it for the night.”

Marianne swallows.

“Are you going to come to my rooms tonight?” she asks.

He hasn’t come again, after that first night, when they sparred.

Bog blinks at her.

“Do you wan’ me to?” he asks.

“Yes,” Marianne says, far too quickly.

(far too honestly)

There’s a barely discernible pause.

“Ah—I will, then,” he says.

* * *

He brings their weapons again that night.

Her marriage remains unconsummated in the morning.

* * *

The next night, after they’ve fought and he has left, Marianne lies on her bed and thinks furiously.

It’s his word against hers that the marriage hasn’t been consummated; she can lie, when they ask her.

—unless they ask her for—intimate details that she’ll be unable to provide. Birthmarks—physical appearance…

She can say it happened only once, that the room was dark.

That’s probably not going to convince people.

She’s not exactly sure if she’s a virgin; things hadn’t progressed very far, physically speaking, between her and Roland, before she broke their engagement (a fact that she is now supremely glad of), or with most of the people she’d dallied with, before Roland, but there had been Helen, the spring she was nineteen, giddy new springtime love, quick to bloom and quick to die, and there had been kisses and mouths and hands, and a little twinge of pain for Marianne, at Helen’s fingers inside her that first time, and blood on the sheets when they were finished.

Even if she’s not a virgin, though, Marianne realizes, that won’t necessarily support her assertion that the marriage was consummated. Bog can easily accuse her of having been unfaithful to him.

It’s—it’s difficult to imagine Bog doing that. Impossible to picture him publicly rejecting her, saying things like that, hurting her like—

( _you trusted Roland_ , her mind whispers, _and look where that got you._ )

Marianne shuts her eyes and presses the heel of her hand to the center of her chest.

 _You won’t have to worry about that_ , Bog had said to her, when she spoke to him about Roland, and oh, she wants to believe him, wants to believe that he won’t hurt her, wants to trust him.

( _you cannot trust him_ , her mind tells her.)

She curls up into a ball.

_(you cannot trust anyone.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By addressing Marianne as "Your Highness", rather than "Your Majesty", Stuff and Thang have inadvertently insulted her--and have also, unfortunately, played into her fears about Bog's intentions. 
> 
> "Your Highness" is a form of address meant for a rank lower than Queen. 
> 
> Stuff and Thang are unaware of this distinction; etiquette at the court of the Dark Forest is much less formal than etiquette in the Fairy Kingdom.


	3. Chapter 3

"This shouldna' be so complicated," Bog grumbles, several months into their campaign to conquer the legal codes. "We were one realm once, it shouldna' be so difficult t' make them one again."

"To be fair," Marianne says dryly, "that was more than two hundred years ago. A lot has changed."

Bog makes a face.

"Aye," he says, "and the mending of anythin' is always harder than the breakin'."

He rubs his hand over his face, then drops it and looks at her and smiles.

The smile feels like a small, painful dart through Marianne's chest. It is hard to remember that she does not trust him, when he smiles at her like that.

"You may be interested to know," she says lightly, "that you actually have a distant relative here in the Fairy Court."

Bog blinks at her.

"Who's tha', then?" he asks.

Marianne gives him a sweet smile.

"Roland," she says.

Bog's mouth falls open and she laughs with gleeful spite.

"You're havin' me on," Bog says, "there's no way tha'—idiotic twit has any goblin blood!"

"Oh, no," Marianne says, "it goes back farther than that."

She rises and stretches her arms over her head, stretches her wings. It's been hours that she's been stuck in that chair, hunched over books.

Her eyes are closed as she stretches, so she does not see the way Bog watches her, the way he swallows and looks away.

Marianne opens her eyes and folds her wings and assumes the pose of pretentious academia that her childhood royal tutors used to hold themselves in as they lectured.

"When Queen Mab I sent Nuada Silverhand to the Dark Forest to rule as her viceroy," Marianne intones, doing her best to imitate the droning way her history tutors had spoken, "Another—rather less illustrious—branch of the family remained in the Fairy Court."

Bog's royal tutors must have been similar to hers, because he gives a snort of laughter at her performance.

" It was to this branch that Nuada's first, divorced wife, Boann, sent their child to be raised by, after she left her husband and returned to the Fairy Court." Marianne continues, still in the same pompous drone. " The Loyalist Silverhands, broke with the Dark Forest Silverhands completely during the War of Separation, though of course there were still rumors questioning their allegiance, and they were never to recover even their former standing."

Marianne stops and swallows. She drops the pose and turns away to run her fingertips over a nearby shelf.

Suddenly it doesn't seem so funny, being able to trace Bog and Roland back to a shared ancestor, no matter that Nuada the Marred died more than a hundred years ago.

Marianne remembers speaking to Roland about this, the way he'd spun the story of his ancestry into a tragic past, the way his eyes had looked so wounded when he lamented that he would always be judged by his blood, that the two of them could never be together because of it.

She'd vowed to marry him, when he'd said that, had sworn it to him, and he'd kissed her.

Her lips twist, now, at the memory.

"Roland," Bog says, spitting the name out like it's a curse. "I'd sooner be related t' a lizard than that idiot."

"At least you didn't plan to marry him," Marianne says, voice flat, looking at the bookshelf. "You're just unlucky enough to be stuck with him. I was stupid enough to actually pick him out."

"…why did you want t' marry him, anyway?" Bog asks.

Marianne makes a face at the bookshelf.

Roland had looked so beautifully vulnerable, that day she became engaged to him, his green eyes filled with artful tears, his golden hair falling just so across his brow.

She feels sick, now, to think of it.

"He was so—good looking," Marianne says

(she is turned away, still, looking at the bookshelf, and so she does not notice the way that Bog flinches when she mentions Sir Roland's beauty)

"Well," Bog says after a moment, "I won't be acknowledgin' the connection in any case, let me tell you."

Marianne gives a snort of derisive laughter and turns towards him with a wry smile. She opens her mouth to tell Bog that acknowledging the relationship would be a thing Roland would hate even more than Bog—

—and then she closes her mouth again and does not say it.

Bog claiming Roland as family would be like salt in a would for Roland, it's true, and Marianne would greatly enjoy the opportunity to watch him writhe, but—

—Marianne knows very well that Roland's offer to help her overthrow her husband springs from self-interest. If she is successful, and if Bog had previously claimed kinship to Roland—

Then she might find herself with a rival for her throne.

Royal blood.

She can picture Roland's smug face as he suggests they marry and share the realm.

Marianne has no intention of trading her current husband for Roland.

"Why don't we go stretch our wings?" she says. "I'm stiff from sitting so long."

"Good idea!" Bog says, and jumps to his feet.

* * *

They fly over half of the Fairy Kingdom, that day, and don't return to the law books at all. Late in the day, when the sun is setting, painting everything with ruddy golden light, the two of them engage in a spirited competition of increasingly complex acrobatic arial maneuvers.

Marianne turns one especially complex diving spin, and Bog, attempting to copy her, flies straight into a dandelion that's ready to seed. They both laugh at his unsuccessful struggles to rid himself of the dandelion fluff stuck in the cracks of his carapace.

"Here," she says, snickering, and lightly slaps his hands away, "just let me do it."

Bog is laughing, too, when she says that.

(when she touches him, their laughter dies away into a strangely fraught kind of silence, and neither of them understand why.)

Marianne's fingers move, deft and gentle, over his shoulders, his head, his back.

* * *

Their fight in Marianne's chambers that night is especially fierce.

Afterwards, when they're both lying on the floor, panting and exhausted, Bog turns his head to look at Marianne, intending to ask her a question.

Her face is flushed, her eyes sparkling, her skin glistening with perspiration.

(as he gazes at her, one drop of sweat slides down her cheek, over the corner of her jaw, and then slips down her neck and for some reason this is incredibly mesmerizing to him)

She raises her eyebrows, asking without words what he wants to say.

(his mind scrambles for a panicked split second, trying to remember)

"—is there a reason," he asks, "why you dinnae keep your sword here? It's a bit foolish, isn' it, me fetchin' it from the armory every night?"

Marianne, blinks at him.

She had kept her sword in her bedroom, before their marriage, and had only moved it to the armory to lull any suspicions her husband might have of her intention to eventually stage a coup against him.

He doesn't look at all suspicious now.

(his piercing-bright blue eyes are heavy lidded with languor, after the exertion of her fight, and something hot and unexpected twists in the pit of Marianne's stomach)

"—no," she says, "no, there's no reason not to keep it here."

She sits up. The hot thing is still twisting in her stomach as Bog sits up as well, and leans back against her sofa.

(—so odd, the way he's all sharp edges and harsh textures, and yet he moves with such powerful grace and—)

Marianne stands up suddenly, her sword once more in hand. She points it at him, looks down the length of the blade at him.

"Again," she says.

Bog looks up at Marianne in dismay.

She looks entirely unfatigued, in spite of the way her hair is sticking to her brow with sweat.

Bog, by contrast, feels as if the entire populace of their realm has trampled him.

"Do you never get tired?" he asks incredulously.

Marianne grins at him and then snaps out her wings challengingly.

And Bog—

Bog finds himself struck, all of a sudden, by how very beautiful she really is—lean corded muscles and those bright violet wings of hers, power and grace together—

"So disappointing," she says with mock sorrow, "the mighty Bog King."

Bog makes a sound of protest.

Marianne sighs theatrically, inspects the nails on her free hand.

"I guess I was just expecting—"

She looks up at him, one eyebrow raised.

"More," she says.

Bog swallows.

"—you're gonna be th' death of me, tough girl," he manages to say.

He climbs to his feet, staff in hand, and Marianne laughs as they both take up defensive stances again.

* * *

The next morning, when she walks into the breakfast room, her sword hangs at her side. Bog looks up as she enters, and he sees her, and—

Oh, Bog thinks.

Marianne sits down at the breakfast table.

—oh no, he thinks, dismay following hard on the heels of understanding.

He's gone and fallen in love with his wife.

* * *

 

_...to be continued._

* * *

 

 

> **Thank you so much for all of the comments! I really appreciate them so much. And I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!**
> 
> **notes on the cultural background:**
> 
> In the cultural background I've come up with, the Fairy Kingdom was already a well-established kingdom two hundred years ago when Queen Mab I reigned.
> 
> Mab I, with the help of her head general, Nuada, expanded the Fairy Kingdom into the Dark Forest, which had not previously had any centralized government of its own. This invasion is known as the War of Conquest. Nuada lost a hand during this campaign, and replaced it with a prosthetic silver one, leading to him becoming known as Nuada Silverhand.
> 
> Following the conquest of the Dark Forest, Mab I sent Nuada Silverhand into the Dark Forest to rule as her viceroy. Nuada became steadily more discontented with Mab I's governing, and steadily more sympathetic to the denizens of the Dark Forest, and eventually broke with Mab I and the Fairy Kingdom, leading to the War of Separation, which Nuada and the Dark Forest won.
> 
> Nuada's first wife, Boann, a fairy, left him and returned to the Fairy Kingdom where she gave birth to a child by Nuada. Boann later became the lover of Mab's youngest son, Dagda II, and stayed in the palace of the Fairy Kingdom, sending her child by Nuada away to be raised by the branch of her former husband's family that remained in the Fairy Kingdom.
> 
> (Marianne and Dawn's father is actually Dagda III.)
> 
> Nuada Silverhand then married a goblin, and his descendants, who rule the Dark Forest, have continued to do so as well, until Bog.
> 
> Bitter at losing the War of Separation, the Fairy Kingdom began referring to Nuada Silverhand as 'Nuada the Traitor', 'Nuada the Marred', and various other insulting names.
> 
> Roland is a descendant of Nuada and Boann. His family name actually is Silverhand; but he doesn't use it very often because he hates his family history. After the War of Separation was lost, his family still in the Fairy Kingdom was pushed out of the main court to the unfashionable southern part of the Kingdom. (Notice how Roland's accent is different from everyone else's in the movie? That's why.)
> 
> Physical beauty and perfection is desperately important to Roland because he is haunted by the fact that he's related to 'Nuada the Marred'. And this is why he was so determined, in canon, to be given command of the army—he says, remember, that he wishes to 'clear' the Dark Forest—he wants to undo the work of Nuada and the War of Separation, to clear it away, clear the slate.
> 
> The Nuada lineage also explains why Bog, in canon, superficially resembles the fairies more than any of the other goblins do. And why Bog is king even though Griselda is still alive: the royal blood is on Bog's father's side. After Bog's father's death, Griselda ruled as regent until Bog's majority, when she stepped aside. Her titles are now Dowager Queen and Queen Mother, although it's really only the fairy court that calls her by those. The Dark Forest is much less formal, and she's usually just called "the king's mother" or simply "Griselda".
> 
> The Dark Forest monarchs descending from Nuada Silverhand choose royal names that reference their non-royal parent, strengthening their connection with the populace of the Dark Forest. Griselda's family originates from an actual bog in the Dark Forest.
> 
> Bog introduces himself to Dawn, in canon, as The Bog King—as in, 'King-whose-family-is-from-the-bog', not just 'my name is Bog'.
> 
> His name is Bog, too—the name and the title are one. Before he reached majority and assumed the crown, he was just called 'the prince'—the heirs to the Dark Forest are not named at birth, but choose their own names when they reach majority.
> 
> Another note on accents—Nuada and Mab I's accents would have been approximately the same as a true 'shakespeare-era' accent. When Nuada removed to the Dark Forest, the accent of the Dark Forest royalty developed into Bog's scottish twang. The accent of the Fairy Kingdom's royal family and court developed into a modern british accent. The common people of the Fairy Kingdom have an american accent. Recently, the royalty of the Fairy Kingdom has been picking up the accent of the common people; Dagda's 'royal' accent is slight and Marianne and Dawn's is nonexistent.
> 
> **notes on inspiration for the cultural background:**
> 
> Nuada is a figure from Irish mythology. He was the king of the Tuatha Dé Dannan, but he lost one hand in battle. Since he was no longer "physically perfect" after the loss of his hand, he was replaced by another king, who proved to be so awful that the Tuatha Dé Dannan decided that maybe they didn't want to be quite so ableist after all, and reappointed Nuada, who had, in the meantime, replaced his lost hand with a working silver prosthetic one, as their king again.
> 
> Boann was Nuada's wife in the mythology, and she did have an affair with Dagda, another member of the Tuatha Dé Dannan.
> 
> The Tuatha Dé Dannan were originally gods and goddesses; later they were driven underground into fairy mounds, and became known as the aes sídhe, or the fairies.
> 
> Queen Mab is a traditional name for a fairy queen; she's the fairy that Mercurio talks about in Romeo and Juliet.


	4. Chapter 4

Falling in love, Bog thinks, is even more awful the second time around, because this time he knows how hopeless it is. The fact that he's actually married to Marianne only makes the whole thing more cruelly ironic.

That day in the library, the day they began the arduous business of going through the legal codes together, she'd asked him to come to her rooms that night, and for a moment, he thought she meant—

But reality had set in immediately; of course she was only wanting to spar again.

Not that sparring with Marianne isn't incredibly enjoyable. Going through tedious legal codes for hours with Marianne is incredibly enjoyable. Everything with Marianne is incredibly enjoyable. That's the problem.

He finds himself more and more baffled, as the weeks turn to months, that Sir Roland could ever have been unfaithful to her.

Really, no one in her kingdom seems, to Bog, to have appreciated Marianne properly.

"Why didn't your father have you command the army?" Bog blurts one night, after they've finished sparring.

Marianne makes a dismissive sound.

"He wouldna' have lost the war, if he had."

Marianne goes very still. She does that, he's noticed, when given a compliment. Like it takes her aback, every time.

And then she smiles at him, a teasing smile.

"I thought you said you weren't a gallant man," she says.

"I'm not," Bog says. "I'm bein' serious, Marianne."

She freezes again, and then she scoffs and turns away.

* * *

Marianne has no one she can trust with this secret.

She speaks to her nobles only in oblique, careful conversations; she is far too cautious to speak to the nobles freely, to trust them.

(you cannot trust anyone)

Her father is too timid to agree to a rebellion. Marianne knows this, and knowing it feels like a betrayal of him.

But her father has no heart for battle.

Roland's offer she keeps in the back of her mind, but if she uses him, it will be as a pawn. She has no intention of allowing him to claim this rebellion as his own, instead of hers. Marianne will give him no hand in its planning.

Her pixie attendants are too flighty for battle plans; Sunny has always been more Dawn's friend than Marianne's, and Dawn—

Marianne has no intention of involving Dawn in anything as dangerous as a rebellion.

Being around Dawn is a comfort, nevertheless, and Marianne spends as much time with her sister as she can.

Though Marianne does not have much time free; she spends most of each day with Bog, attending to administrative difficulties and slogging through the legal codes and sparring at nights.

And sometimes even when she's able to snatch a moment, she's not always able to find Dawn.

Marianne doesn't think much of it; assumes that Dawn is amusing herself, playing at crushes with new boys in secret, due to the law against love.

And then, one day when the two of them are lying on Dawn's bed, Dawn asks Marianne if she and Bog have gotten to the laws about marriage yet. And her tone, when she asks, is—

Marianne sits up.

"We're starting with that tomorrow," she says slowly. "Why?"

Dawn sits up, too, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

"Oh," she says, "no—no reason."

"Dawn."

"Has he decided to repeal the law against love, yet?" Dawn asks.

Marianne blinks.

"Yet?" she says. "I'm pretty sure he's not going to repeal it at all."

Dawn frowns.

"But I thought—" she shakes her head.

Marianne flicks her cheek.

"You're changing the subject; don't think I didn't notice," she says. "Why do you want to know about marriage law? Have you got a new crush?"

"No," Dawn says.

Marianne laughs.

"Oh, come on, you can tell me," she teases.

"It's not a crush," Dawn says quietly.

Marianne's laughter dries up and her heart gives a horrible painful twist.

(oh no; not Dawn; her sweet and innocent little sister shouldn't have to face being in love; she doesn't deserve to get her heart broken)

"It's Sunny," Dawn says.

Marianne lets out a breath, relief flooding her.

Sunny is—one of the people on Marianne's very short list of trustworthy people, actually; perhaps this isn't the disaster she assumed it would be.

"It—it isn't like it was, with anybody else," Dawn says. "This—it isn't something that's going to fade or go away."

"—good, that's—that's good," Marianne manages to say, and Dawn looks very terribly relieved before her expression goes anxious and tense again.

"And so we were—we were wondering," Dawn says, "about the fairy kingdom's law against intermarriage between—"

"I'm sure the Dark Forest doesn't have any law like that," Marianne says, "I mean, Bog's married to me."

Dawn gives her an unreadable sidelong look.

"Yes," she says, "he is. You really don't think he'll repeal the law against love?"

"No, of course not," Marianne says.

"Oh," Dawn says, and then hesitates for a moment, "maybe you should talk to him about it."

Marianne puts her hands on her sister's shoulders and shakes her playfully.

"You drive me crazy!" she says, and then kisses her forehead and pulls her into a tight hug. "I'll talk to him about it, okay?"

Of course Dawn wants to be able to publicly be in love, now that she really is in love.

Marianne will talk to Bog about it, for Dawn.

* * *

Marianne looks tense, when she walks into the library; Bog frowns, wondering what's wrong.

But she sits at the table with him, ready to begin, as they always do, by reading laws to each other in turn.

They're on marriage law, today; perhaps that's what has Marianne so wound up and uncomfortable.

She gestures at him to read first, so he opens his book to the page where they last left off.

"'A marriage is considered valid as long as all directly involved parties have reached the age of majority and agree that they are married'," Bog reads.

Marianne blinks.

"A ceremony isn't necessary?" she asks.

"Oh, no," Bog says, "it's a good excuse for a party, but tha's all, really."

Marianne makes an interested sound and stands, moving behind him to look over his shoulder at the book in his hands.

"And you don't need parental permission," she says, sounding fascinated.

Bog swallows.

She is—really very close.

"No," he says, holding very still.

She straightens up and moves away again, to sit in her chair. Bog clears his throat.

"What's the next one in your book?" he asks.

"'No subject of the fairy kingdom shall marry, dally, or produce offspring with an individual of a species, race, or caste other than their own'," Marianne reads, and then adds briskly, without looking at him, "We're getting rid of that one, of course."

"Of course," Bog agrees.

Marianne inhales sharply through her nose and makes a decisive mark through the law in her book.

"Your turn again," she says.

"'All possessions are mutual during a marriage'," he reads, "'but revert to their original owners if the marriage is dissolved.'"

"—I see," Marianne says, and then pauses.

Bog waits; she has something more she wants to say, he can tell.

"Would you consider repealing the law against love?" she asks abruptly.

Bog blinks at her.

All of her earlier tenseness is back; she isn't looking at him, is glaring at the tabletop as if it has personally offended her.

Love. Why would she ask about—

(had her expression changed, when he read about the dissolution of marriages?)

Oh.

Oh.

So that's it, then.

Marianne has fallen in love with someone.

The realization settles like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes," he says quietly.

Marianne's head jerks up sharply; she stares at him with a shocked expression, her eyes wide.

"Yes…you've thought about it?" she says.

"Yes, I'll repeal it," Bog says.

Her lips part.

She hadn't expected him to say yes, he thinks, she'd thought he would deny her, keep her from her love, from happiness.

And why wouldn't she think that of you, he tells himself viciously, you stole her happiness from her once already when you forced her to marry you.

"What's th' next law you've got?" he asks, gesturing to her book.

(his voice is a bit rough; he hopes she won't notice.)

Marianne swallows and looks down at the book.

"'—a divorce," she says, her voice trembling, "requires the consent of both parties, and of a magistrate. Sufficient grounds must also be given for the divorce: treason, physical or mental cruelty, infidelity, abandonment, or criminal conviction.'"

"Tha' one's got ta be thrown out, too," Bog says.

"Does yours say something different about divorce?" Marianne says, and Bog can tell that her voice is not trembling now only because she has herself under iron control.

"Only one party has t' claim divorce," says Bog, "and no grounds need be given."

Marianne's face is very pale, now.

"No grounds?" she says.

"None," Bog says gently, reassuringly.

* * *

Marianne excuses herself from the library early that day, pleading a headache. She sends her attendants away and lies facedown on her bed in the dark.

So.

It is to be a divorce, rather than an annulment, that Bog will use to set her aside.

She will never have to face the ordeal of public questioning about consummation. No reason need be given, for a divorce.

All possessions revert to their original owners after the dissolution of the marriage. She will lose her place as Queen and she will lose—

Marianne squeezes her eyes shut, but tears still slip onto the rose petals.

His reasons for leaving the marriage unconsummated were never political.

He's simply never desired her.

Marianne has long looked at the differences between them, the differences of him, and has found them to be beautiful: the harsh, craggy features of his face, the wicked sharpness of his teeth and claws, the layers of scales that make up his carapace—

—like living armor, and she remembers the fascinating texture of them, the way they had felt to her fingers, that day they flew together.

They are different; he is different but that's—what she likes. About him.

But it seems the same does not hold true for Bog.

She has never asked him outright, to take her to bed. It's always felt—too dangerous. For several reasons, only some of which Marianne has wished to admit to herself.

Lying alone in her bed, she admits them to herself now.

She wanted him to ask her. She wanted to make him beg to take her to bed. She wanted to charm him into abandoning his plan to set her aside. She wanted—

—she wanted to make him love her.

And she wanted that not only to secure her place as Queen but because she wanted him to love her the way—

—the way that she loves him.

Marianne takes a sharp breath.

She loves him.

Of course she does. Because things aren't bad enough, already.

Marianne remembers what it was like, falling in love with Roland, and for all the misery that came at its ending, the beginning was sweet and joyful.

There is no joy and sweetness in this, now. The beginning and the ending are one and the same, and Marianne's heart is like a stone in her chest. She wishes she could carve it out of her chest and lay the heavy weight of it down.

But she cannot. All she can do, now, is consider her options.

She can lead her coup and attempt to overthrow him. Her stomach turns and her heart shrinks at the thought of it, but she could do it, if she must. Or—

She can let him set her aside. Give up her place as Queen, let him replace her with—

With who? Has he—has he already found her replacement? Has he fallen in love with someone else?

(you won't have to worry about that, he said, at their wedding banquet, but oh, he agreed so very quickly to allow love in the realm again and Marianne can't help but fear—)

Or—or maybe he doesn't intend to replace her at all. Perhaps he plans to rule alone.

He outlawed love; it's possible that the idea of that kind of affection is abhorrent to him on principle. Perhaps it isn't that Marianne, specifically, repels him; perhaps he does not desire her because he has never desired anyone.

If that is the case, then—then maybe Marianne has a chance to keep her place after all. She's a good Queen; she is; and they work well together, and they're—friends.

(it seems horrible, the fact that she considers someone who she is plotting to overthrow as her friend)

He is her friend, though, and if she can just make him see that she is his, then perhaps he will be willing to stay married to her, to continue to rule with her, the way that they have been, this past year.

Marianne curls up in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest.

She hasn't lost. Not completely.

Marianne slips into sleep while she's trying to think of ways to convince Bog of their friendship.

* * *

She awakes to the sound of a knock on her bedroom doors. Marianne sits up in the darkness, disoriented, uncertain of how much time has passed.

"Come in," she says.

She assumes it will be her sister who enters, or possibly a servant, bringing her food; it feels late to Marianne, and she's hungry enough to realize that she must have missed dinner.

It's Bog who steps into her room, instead.

"Ah—" he says, looking a little uncertain, "I brought you somethin' t' eat?"

He holds up the tray in his hands. Marianne's stomach growls audibly and Bog relaxes slightly, smiling.

"I take it your no' gonna toss me out, then," he says, and moves to the bed.

"I'm not going to toss the food out," Marianne says, with as much dignity as she can muster (oh no, what does her hair look like? has she been sleeping on it weird? is it standing up all odd and unappealing?)

She takes the tray from him and gives him a mock-critical look.

"But I suppose you can stay as well," she says.

The moonlight streaming through her bedroom window gives enough light for her to see his face; she hopes it's not enough for him to see how deeply her own face is blushing as she moves aside on her bed, leaving room for him to sit down if he chooses, an implicit invitation.

He hesitates for so long that she assumes he won't, and then, abruptly, he does.

Marianne takes a steadying breath.

Right. Okay. She can do this. Everything is totally normal.

She turns her attention pointedly to her food.

He's brought her several of the royal cook's little acorn and honey cakes (her favorite), a cup of raspberry tea, and a little stoppered bottle, made out of some kind of gray stone. Marianne, taking a bite of cake, picks up the bottle and looks at it curiously.

"Headache cure potion," Bog says, "my mother swears by th' recipe, though I will warn you, it's absolutely disgustin'."

He makes such a face that Marianne laughs as she puts down the bottle again.

"To be drank only when desperate, then," she says, and he nods feelingly.

She takes another bite and he drops his eyes to the petals of her bed, frowns down at them.

"Did I miss anything important?" she asks, and he starts slightly, then looks up at her.

"Anythin'…? Oh. Nothin' much. Another petition concernin' bread fraud. I dinnae know what they expect us t' do," he says, becoming animated, "we can pass all th' regulations we like, but the two of us cannae stand lookin' over the shoulder of every baker in the realm!"

"Bread spies," Marianne suggests, licking her fingers.

"Bread spies?" Bog asks, cocking his head at her with a bemused expression on his face.

"People hired to act like customers and secretly test each bakery's goods," she says.

Bog's face breaks into a smile.

"We'll have plenty a' applicants for the job, that's for sure," he says.

"Free food," Marianne says, raising her last acorn cake in a salute.

Bog laughs. The amusement fades gradually from his face.

He clears his throat and looks away from her, towards her window, and the moon.

"I did want t' let you know," he says, "that I've—written the proclamation—about—about repealin' the law against—love."

His hands are on his knees; his claws click restlessly against his carapace.

"It's set t' go out tomorrow," he says to the moon.

"…oh," says Marianne.

She feels—oddly frozen. He was very quick to repeal that law, once asked.

"An' I've already sent a message back to the Dark Forest," he continues, "freein' the Sugarplum Fairy."

"…oh," she says again.

An uneasy silence falls between them. Marianne stares down at her empty teacup, Bog at the moon.

"Why did you forbid love?" she asks without looking up.

Bog flinches, and looks away from the moon at last, towards Marianne. She looks up at him, their eyes meeting.

"I—I fell in love, once," he says.

Marianne takes a sharp little breath, a sound like the reaction of pain.

"She was—sweet," he says, and he looks away from her, towards the shadows at the corner of her room, this time.

"And so beautiful," he goes on. "She was—the most beautiful thing I had ever seen."

Marianne closes her eyes.

"Do you know," Bog asks, "why I hate primroses?"

Marianne opens her eyes and looks at him again, at the harsh profile of his face as he stares into the shadows.

"They're wha' Sugarplum uses to make love potions," he says.

His lips press together.

"It didn't work for me," Bog says. "Not even the potion could—"

He shakes his head, then looks at Marianne, his lips twisted in a thin, pained smile.

"The potion didn't work for me."

"I'm sorry," Marianne whispers, thinking of her wedding gown.

"I should never have done it," Bog says quietly. "I should never have tried to make her—I should never have made that law, should never have punished everyone else for—"

Marianne reaches out hesitantly and touches the back of his hand. He jerks slightly in surprise, and then he clears his throat.

"Ah, well," he says, "there are a lot of things I never should have done."

"Bog—"

He smiles at her, a smile that does not reach his eyes.

"Marryin' you," he says, "tha' was another thing I shouldna' have done."

He pats the back of her hand and Marianne finds she cannot speak, cannot respond at all.

"I did not mean it as a humiliation, Marianne," he says, looking away from her again.

He pats her hand once more and then stands, his hands slipping from her grasp.

"I should let you sleep now," he says, and leaves her.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind him.

Marianne, left alone in her bed, pulls the hand he touched to her chest, cradles it there with her other hand.

_(he was in love, before)_

(the most beautiful thing he had ever seen)

_(marrying you was another thing I should not have done)_

The first sob catches her off guard, makes her press her hand to her mouth, and then she's weeping in earnest, horrible wracking sobs that shake her whole body.

Marrying her was a _mistake_.

When she finally runs out of tears, her earlier lie about having a headache has turned into the truth.

She unstoppers the little stone bottle that Bog gave her, and drinks the contents.

It really is disgusting.

(she saves the bottle and hides it beneath her pillow.)

* * *

The Sugarplum Fairy is released from her imprisonment.

And love returns to the realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Bread fraud was a real historical problem. Filler substances might be added to the flour, loaves might be underweight or undersized, and bad flour might be added to good.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the reviews! I really appreciate them; they are very encouraging and inspiring!


	5. Chapter 5

Marianne hadn’t realized, before, how much more _pleasant_ Bog’s law against love made her life.

Now, everywhere she looks, she sees couples holding hands, staring dreamily into each other’s eyes, kissing—there is entirely! too much! kissing!

All she hears is love songs and poetry and syrupy sweet declarations of devotion.

It’s horrible.

Planning Dawn’s wedding is a special kind of torture, especially since Marianne feels terribly guilty about how much she hates it. She’s happy that Dawn’s happy, of course, and she’s glad that Dawn is marrying someone she loves, the one person, in Marianne’s estimation, who might come close to deserving her.

But.

There is only so much talk of which love songs will be the best to dance to, what flavors the little heart-shaped wedding cakes should be, what expressions of affection the bride and groom’s vows of eternal love should include—

There’s only so much of that sort of thing that Marianne can take without wanting to scream.

Dawn has designed her wedding gown herself, of course, as well as Marianne’s gown. Marianne is disconcerted to find that her primrose-petal wedding dress has started a new fad. Dawn’s wedding promises to be the event of the season, and all of the really fashionable ladies are planning to wear dresses made of flower petals to it. This means that none of their dresses can be made ahead of time, as the flowers will wilt.

Some of the more frugal ladies might settle for gowns made of fabric that has been shaped into petals and then sewn together, but anyone who can afford the fresh flower gowns definitely intends to have one. Another trick the overwhelmed seamstresses have come up with is making an under-gown of fabric, which the petals can then be sewn to, but, as Dawn informs Marianne, the truly modish regard this as gauche and not to be considered.

The allure of the fresh flower gowns is in how delicate and ephemeral they are. Apparently.

“…right,” says Marianne, who definitely just came up with the idea on a cruel whim to torment her husband-to-be.

The chosen flower for the wedding party is to be violets: blue petals for Dawn, and deep purple ones for Marianne.

The dresses won’t be made until the day of the wedding itself, but after the royal seamstress takes their measurements, fabric mock-up dresses are made, so that Dawn can approve the final designs. Dawn is a perfectionist where clothing is concerned, and she adjusts the design of all the gowns several times, necessitating alterations and more trial fittings.

It is during the third round of fittings that Marianne finds she cannot bear another instant and has to excuse herself for a moment. She slips into an empty room a few doors beyond the fitting room, leans against the window sill, closes her eyes, and breathes.

The sound of the door opening and then closing again as someone enters makes her eyes fly open, and she turns, her heart in her throat, somehow convinced that it will be Bog, that he’s finally decided to stop avoiding her, the way he has ever since that night in her bedroom and—

It’s not Bog.

It’s Roland.

“No need to look so sad, now, Marianne,” Roland says with a smile that she would have found charming, once. “Help is here.”

He’s wisely elected to stay a few paces away from her, this time, out of striking distance.

“Roland,” Marianne says, lip curling.

He gives her another smile, and Marianne feels—very cold, all of a sudden, and very far away, looking at him. She looks at him, and it’s almost as if she’s never truly seen him before.

 _I used to think I was in love with you_ , she thinks.

For the first time, the thought brings with it no bitter wave of self-disgust and self-recrimination. Instead, Marianne feels only a distant kind of amazement, and gratitude at her narrow escape.

“So what’s the plan, Buttercup?” Roland asks, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He turns his head just slightly, making the sunlight from the window hit his hair at a more direct angle, making it glow gold.

If Bog were here, she could look over at him and meet his eyes, and she would have to hide a smile at the way he’d raise his eyebrow because she’d know without either of them saying anything that they’d both be thinking _what a twit_ , and then later Marianne would do an impression of Roland and both of them would laugh and—

Marianne comes to herself with a start, terribly aware of everything, all of the sensory detail of this moment, the fabric of the trial dress against her skin and the warmth of the afternoon sun and the solid expanse of the floor beneath her feet.

And she knows, suddenly, that she will not do it. She will not conspire with Roland—with anyone—against Bog. She will take her plans for rebellion no further.

“The army is ready to strike anytime you say go,” Roland says, teeth gleaming.

Marianne draws herself up to her full height.

“Go. Away,” she says.

Roland blinks.

“Beg pardon?”

“Go away,” Marianne repeats. “I do not want to talk to you. I do not want to look at you. Go away.”

Roland’s handsome face twists.

“You need me!” he says. “You need my help!”

Marianne laughs.

“I don’t want your help. I want nothing from you—nothing except your _absence_.”

“I command the army!” Roland says, striding towards her, his face thunderous. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that little fact! They won’t move without me, so if you want your coup, Marianne, you’d better—”

Marianne punches him.

Her fist hits him squarely in the face; he stumbles back and falls to the ground with a clatter of armor on stone.

“I have no desire for a coup,” she says, looking down her nose at Roland. “And when you address your queen, you will use her proper title.”

Roland gapes at her, his hand on his bruised face. Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be any blood coming from between his fingers; Marianne had been hoping she might have broken his nose.

She bares her teeth in a threat of a smile.

“And the proper title for a queen,” she says, “is _Your Majesty._ ”

Roland is still staring at her in speechless shock as she sweeps from the room.

Marianne strides down the hall to the fitting room again, takes a deep breath, fixes her smile so that it’s less like a snarl, and opens the door.

“There you are!” Dawn says, her wings fluttering with excited agitation. “Come over here, Marianne; I want to look at the bodice of your dress again.”

Smiling, Marianne does as her sister asks, her shaking hands hidden in the fabric of her skirt.

* * *

Roland paces the empty room, his sixth circuit since Marianne knocked him down and left. She’d struck him! His _face_ is probably going to _bruise!_ His _face!_

She’s clearly out of her mind; what did she mean, she has no desire for a coup?! She can’t possibly like being married to that—that—

The King is a goblin, for goodness sake; you aren’t supposed to want to marry goblins!

If only Marianne hadn’t discovered him with Bella on their wedding day. Then he would be the one married to Marianne, and he wouldn’t need her approval for the coup. He would be able to start the rebellion in his own name.

Everything was so much simpler when Marianne was in love with him.

Why can’t she just let the whole Bella incident go? All right, so Marianne’s pride must have been injured, but surely he’d humbled himself enough to appease her, at the Spring Ball, a few months after she left him at the altar! He’d serenaded her publicly, begging for her return; shouldn’t they be even, now?

If only the Sugarplum Fairy had been released back then; he could have used one of those love potions she’s always talking about instead of going to all of that trouble with the singing and the choreographed dancing and the—

Roland stops his circuit of the room.

A love potion.

The Sugarplum Fairy is back in the fairy court. There’s no reason he can’t use a love potion now, is there?

Oh, it’s illegal, of course; the King has lifted the ban on love but not the law against love potions.

But that’s just a technical detail. The Sugarplum Fairy babbles on and on about her love potions to anyone who is willing to listen (and also to people who are not willing to listen). It won’t take more than a little nudge to get her to go back to making her potions.

And when Marianne is in love with him again, she’ll be eager to get rid of that goblin husband of hers. Roland will have his coup.

He’ll have his crown.

Roland pictures it; visualizes it: the crown, sitting on his head. Him, sitting on a throne. No more bowing and scraping and gritting his teeth and pretending not to see the way people look down their noses at him, pretending not to hear them whispering about the shame of his family history.

Nobody talks about a king like that. Nobody looks at a king like that.

He lets out a long breath, feeling calmer, his head held high, as though he already wears the crown.

Now, what’s the best way to go about this? He can’t ask the Lady Plum for the potion himself, otherwise she’ll be suspicious when Marianne suddenly comes back to him. Who can he convince to get the potion for him?

He runs through his mental catalogue of his current sweethearts, trying to decide which one is the most gullible.

Celeste, he decides. Definitely Celeste.

He twists his finger in his hair, making sure it’s lying just right across his forehead, and then strides out of the room and down the corridor towards the rooms of the palace chambermaids, in search of Celeste, planning what he’ll say to convince her.

_I’ve heard that love potion can be a powerful aphrodisiac for two people already in love; wouldn’t you like to try it, darlin’?_

Yes, that’s perfect. Obviously Lady Plum will know better; if Celeste mentions the supposed aphrodisiac qualities of the potion, Lady Plum will set the girl straight and he can’t have that. A simple matter, to make Celeste too embarrassed to ask a _lady_ about aphrodisiacs. Roland will craft a sad story for her to tell to Lady Plum instead—unrequited love, desperation, sorrow, the works. The Sugarplum Fairy won’t be able to resist.

And when Celeste brings him the potion, he’ll switch it out for a bottle of powdered rose and violet petals, maybe some crushed mica thrown in for sparkle. She won’t be any the wiser when the two of them dust themselves with that, instead of the potion. Her own silly head will probably convince her that she feels the effect of the potion regardless.

Besides, Roland has excellent technique; doesn’t need an aphrodisiac to make a lover’s head spin. Roland has made a study of pleasing other people, both in and out of bed.

He’s always thought Marianne might not have been so quick to break their engagement, had he ever bedded her.

Roland’s heart and feet are light as he makes his way to the servants’ quarters, and he whistles a tune beneath his breath as he walks, that song Marianne was so fond of, when they were courting.

_Take my hand; take my whole life, too—_

_I can’t help falling in love with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you for the reviews! I'm always so excited to read them. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

Avoiding Marianne turns out to be more difficult that Bog expected. When he suggests that they put their examination of the law books aside until after the tumult of Dawn's wedding is over, Marianne agrees, and quite a lot of her time is occupied will assisting her sister and her sister's betrothed with the planning of the wedding. Bog expects that.

What he does not expect is Dawn's determination to include him in the planning as well.

Why she seems to want him to assist them, Bog cannot imagine; he knows absolutely nothing about bunting and table settings and such things.

"Hold the other two swatches up, now," Dawn commands him, and Bog obeys. "Marianne, what do you think?"

"—er," says Marianne, whose knowledge of bunting, Bog knows, goes about as far as his own. "That's…nice."

Princess Dawn regards the fabric swatches critically, one hand on her face, forefinger tapping her cheek.

"Hold up the first two again, now." she says. "Hmm. Second two." She narrows her eyes, "Third two again. First two." She makes a noise of frustration. "Ugh, I'm just not sure—which one do you think is better, Marianne?"

Marianne looks at the fabric, and then meets Bog's eyes, and something of his feelings on the subject of bunting must communicate itself to her through his expression, because her lips twitch. She gives a cough that he's fairly certain is smothered laughter.

"…I'm going to be honest," she says. "They all look the same to me."

"Marianne!" Dawn says, "Bog, what do you think?"

"Th' second pair," Bog says promptly.

"Really?" Dawn says.

"Definitely," Bog says with great firmness, "definitely the second pair."

He gestures with the aforementioned second pair of fabric swatches.

"That's the third pair!" Dawn says.

Bog makes the mistake of meeting Marianne's eyes again, and both of them burst into laughter. Dawn gives them both an exasperated look, which only seems to make it funnier.

"All right; all right; you caught me," Bog says to Dawn, still laughing, "truthfully, they look th' same t' me, too."

"You're just as bad as she is!" Dawn says. "They are all completely different shades! Not even close to the same!"

Marianne cracks up again.

"It's not a bad, same!" Bog says, unable to stop himself from laughing, too "It's—"

"Right!" Marianne says, "Right, it's—"

He gestures with both hands searchingly; when he looks over at Marianne, she's doing the same thing.

"—lovely?" they both say at the same moment.

Dawn rolls her eyes.

"I," she says with great dignity, over the sounds of Bog's snickering and Marianne snorting with laughter, "am going to go ask Sunny."

Dawn gathers the fabric into her arms and flutters away with her nose in the air. She looks back at them over her shoulder once, though, with an expression of exasperated affection, and shakes her head as she moves away through the crowd of people that are assisting with the decorations in the hall.

"Quick, let's escape!" Marianne says. "Before they both come back and make us hold the fabric up for them again."

"Good idea," Bog says, and begins to sidle towards the door that leads to the east wing.

He's expecting Marianne to go in the opposite direction, towards the west wing, but she sidles up next to him instead.

"Where are you headed, then?" Marianne asks.

"Ah—nowhere in particular," Bog says, stopping his sidle in surprise. Is she asking so she can be sure to avoid him? He's tried to give her as many opportunities as possible to go and see—whoever it is that she's in love with, but perhaps she's worried about him interrupting them?

"Oh!" Marianne says, "Um. Well—if you're not—busy, we could practice? Your dancing some more?"

Bog blinks at her.

(maybe her beloved is busy today?)

"If you like," he says, and sees Marianne's shoulders relax a bit. He wonders what she was feeling so tense about.

She flashes him a quick smile.

"Thanks," she says, lowering her voice, "I know you hate dancing, but Dawn really wants us to dance the first few figures with her and Sunny. I think she's worried Sunny is going to be uncomfortable since he can't do the traditional flying wedding dance."

(ah, so Marianne was tense because she's concerned for her sister. and that's why she's spending time with him today, practicing.)

"I don't hate dancin'," Bog says.

Marianne frowns.

"But I thought—I mean, you hate music, so—"

"It's no' music that I hate," Bog says, "it's—he gestures with one hand, "fairy music."

Marianne snorts.

"How flattering," she says drily.

"I'm no' tryin' to be rude," Bog says, "it's—fairy music sounds different than the kind of music we have in the Dark Forest. Yours—it's mostly the more—energetic—fairy music, but it's got a kind of—piercing shriek at the back of it. Sets a goblin's teeth on edge."

Marianne tips her head, still frowning.

"A piercing shriek?" she says. "I've never heard anything like that."

Bog shakes his head.

"No, I dinnae think you can hear it. Our ears seem to hear differently. It's not so bad for me as it is for others, since I've got some fairy blood, but I can still hear it."

"Does it sound like that when I talk?" Marianne asks, looking rather horrified.

"No, no!" Bog says, "an' like I said, it's the quick and lively tunes that in comes through the strongest."

Marianne chews her lip thoughtfully.

"So it's something in the way it's sung," she says. "What does goblin music sound like?"

"Er—" Bog says, "I mean—there's a different quality t' it…"

He flails for a way to describe it in words for a moment, and then gives it up and clears his throat nervously.

 _"—will you give me your hand—"_ he sings, then stops and clears his throat again.

Marianne is looking at him with wide eyes and he feels incredibly awkward, but he's gotten this far, so he might as well continue.

_"—will you give me your hand_

_Just give me your hand and I'll walk with you_

_Through the streets of our land, through the mountains so grand_

_If you give me your hand—"_

He stops. Surely that's enough to give her the general idea.

"I know that song, though!" Marianne says.

"Really?" Bog says.

She nods.

_"—by day and night," she sings, "throughout struggle and strife—"_

Bog winces and she stops, frowning.

"You can still hear the weird sound, even though it's the same song?" she says.

He nods.

"Okay, so what if I— _by day and night_ ," she sings again, " _throughout struggle and strife—_ "

Bog feels his eyes go wide because her voice sounds different somehow. It's rougher, and it hits each note harder, and it sounds—it sounds right; the notes don't have that teeth-on-edge piercing quality to them.

 _"—I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love,"_ Marianne sings, and then stops. "Is that any better?"

"That was amazin'," Bog says, "how did you do that, Marianne?"

"I just tried to sing it more like you did," she says, starting to smile, "really, though, the piercing background noise is gone?"

"It sounded perfect," Bog says, "keep going!"

Marianne's smile goes really bright.

 _"I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love,"_ she sings once more.

 _"For love is not for one,"_ Bog joins in, _"but for both of us to share._

_For this country so fair, for our world and what's there—"_

Marianne grins at him.

 _"Just give me your hand,"_ she sings, voice loud, wings fluttering as she lifts of into the air and spins.

Bog laughs and follows her into the air.

 _"Just give me your hand,"_ he sings, matching her volume.

 _"Will you give me your hand and the world it can see,"_ they sing together. " _That we can be free in peace and harmony—"_

 _"From the north to the south,"_ Bog sings, turning in a circle.

 _"From the east to the west,"_ Marianne sings, turning in a circle of her own.

 _"Everly mountain, every valley, every bush and bird's nest,"_ they sing together.

Marianne spins towards him and Bog mimics her, turning in so that they face each other. She lifts her hands, and he does the same, so that their palms are pressed together, both of them flying in a slow circle now.

_"By day and night, throughout struggle and strife_

_I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love—"_

Marianne pushes off of his palms and twirls, her arms upraised.

_"—For love is not for one_

_But for both of us to share—"_

Bog holds out his hand and Marianne takes it.

_"—For this country so fair, for our world and what's there—"_

Marianne spins towards him, still holding his hand, furling her wings as she does.

Bog lifts their joined hands and catches her waist with his other hand, wrapping his arm around her so that he can keep both of them in the air.

The move pulls her close to him; they end up pressed together, Marianne's free hand around his neck and her face very close to his.

 _"—just give me your hand—"_ Marianne sings, voice suddenly quiet and eyes wide and startled.

 _"—just—give me your hand—"_ Bog echoes, lowering their joined hands.

He loosens his grip on her hand, but Marianne doesn't pull it away like he's expecting her to; she presses their hands together, palm to palm, instead, and then—she slides her fingers into the spaces between his own, and she still has her other arm around his neck and she's looking at him with an expression that seems terribly uncertain suddenly and—

Someone in the room below gives a whistle and Marianne gives a little shriek of startlement, her wings snapping out.

Bog lets go of her quickly and glances down, horrified, suddenly remembering—

—ah, yes, the crowd. And they're all staring; of course they are. And cheering, too; clearly they've enjoyed watching their king make an absolute fool of himself.

Bog looks over at Marianne, who looks mortified, her face flushed. She meets his gaze and gives an awkward laugh as she lowers herself to land. Bog follows her, his heart heavy and his stomach twisting.

"Bog!" Dawn says, moving towards the two of them, beaming, Sunny in tow, "I didn't know you sang!"

"We need to go through the songs for the ball again," Marianne says. "And talk to the choir."

Dawn turns to her, head tilted quizzically.

"The music—Bog says goblins hear singing different," Marianne says. "The way we usually sings hurts their ears."

"Oh!" Dawn says, eyes going wide.

"Oh, man, why didn't you say so before?" Sunny asks, "I wouldn't have made you listen to me sing all the song choices like that this morning!"

"—I didn't think it mattered," Bog says, bewildered.

"Well, we can't make the Dark Forest half of the guests hold their ears all night!" Dawn says.

Bog blinks at her.

"…the what, now?" he says.

"The what now, what?" Sunny says, looking at Bog like he thinks he might be crazy.

"The guests," Dawn says slowly. "At the wedding. You did invite the Dark Forest court to the wedding."

"…uh," Bog says.

"You didn't invite the court?" Dawn says, and now she's looking at him like he's crazy.

"—well, I mean—there isn't—really a court," Bog says, claws clicking together nervously. "There's just sort of…people. Who do things…"

"And you didn't tell them they were invited?" Dawn says, voice rising on a note of incredulity.

Her wings flutter in agitation; Sunny takes her hand and pats it soothingly, and she takes a breath, her wings still again.

"You did at least tell your mother she was invited, right?" Marianne says.

"—Uh."

"You didn't even tell your mother to come?" Marianne says, her wings fluttering in agitation, too, now.

"Right," Dawn says, eyes flashing, chin raising to an angle of determination. "There's still time for you to invite them. And you are going to invite them. Aren't you."

Bog quails.

"Yes! Yes, yes; definitely, yes—"

Dawn fixes him with one last hard look, and then her expression softens into something that looks a little hurt.

"I _like_ Griselda," she says, and to Bog's ultimate horror, her lip wobbles. "Don't—don't you think she'd _want_ to come?"

"I'm sure she'll be delighted t' come!" Bog says quickly. "I'm sure they'll all be delighted to come; can't think how inviting them slipped my mind! Let's talk about tha' music now, shall we!"

They spend the entire rest of the day going through the music again. Marianne demonstrates for the choir her new technique for singing music that doesn't hurt his ears, and she makes them practice it over and over again until they get it right.

"Sorry tha' we did no' get to the dancin'," Bog says to Marianne as the two of them walk out of the hall together at the end of a very long day of entirely too much music and bunting.

Marianne groans.

"That's right; the dancing!" she says. "Work on it tomorrow?"

"I think I'm supposed to be invitin' the Dark Forest to your sister's wedding tomorrow," Bog says. "I'd hate to see what she'd do to me if I didn't."

Marianne snorts.

"Dawn doesn't really go in much for violence or shouting when she's upset," she says. "She just gets very disappointed at you."

"That's wha' I'm afraid of," Bog says with a shudder.

Marianne laughs.

"Tonight, then," she says, "we can do that instead of sparring. I guess."

She sighs and makes a face and Bog clicks his tongue in mock sympathy.

"Poor tough girl," he says, "dancin' instead of swords."

Marianne assumes a pose of extreme nobility.

"The sacrifices one makes for family," she says tragically.

Bog laughs and she drops the pose, grinning at him.

"It's too bad th' Fairy Court doesn't go in for sword dancin'," Bog says.

Marianne looks at him inquiringly.

"Sword dancing?" she says.

"Sword dancing," Bog says, gesturing, "you know. Haven't you ever seen it?"

Marianne stops in the middle of the hall and fixes him with a serious look.

"Do you mean to tell me," she says, "that in the Dark Forest, you dance with swords? Actually dance with actual swords?"

"Completely actual swords," Bog says, "Completely actual dancing. I'll teach you, if you want," he's unable to stop himself from adding.

Marianne takes a sharp breath through her nose, nostrils flaring, and then she smiles, wide and wicked.

"Oh, I want," she says, voice low, a tone to it that makes Bog shiver involuntarily, makes heat curl in the pit of his stomach. "I want very much."

* * *

 Bog walks her to her room and then leaves her so that she can dress for dinner. Marianne grins to herself the entire time she's changing.

Sword dancing. Dancing with swords. Actual dancing! With actual swords! And she's going to learn how!

She smooths her hands down her bodice, making sure the material drapes properly. As her hands reach her hips, the memory sweeps through her: Bog's arm around her waist and his face so close to hers, his blue eyes wide as she looked into them.

(close enough to kiss her if he chose to.)

If he wanted to.

She swallows.

— _exactly,_ she tells herself, smile fading from her lips and joy fading from her heart. _Obviously he didn't want to._

What had he said about that girl, the one he'd fallen in love with? _The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen._ Goblins don't even hear music the same way fairies do; Marianne is certain they have very different standards of beauty.

She isn't ever going to be pretty to him.

(Marrying you was a mistake.)

 _She was sweet,_ he'd said as well, about that girl he'd loved.

Marianne is never going to be able to be sweet for him.

Marianne is hard and Marianne is bitter and Marianne is a mistake and Marianne needs to remember that.

He's being kind to her, she realizes, with a sick twisting sensation in the center of her chest.. Singing with her and offering to teach her his sword dance and laughing with her. All just kindness. He's trying to soften the blow of their eventual divorce.

Marianne wonders if it's only pity that moves him to be kind, or if he actually has just the smallest bit of real affection for her.

Her makeup is ruined, she notes dispassionately as she wipes her face, brushing the tears away, streaks of purple eye paint running down her cheeks with the tears, leaving violet colored smudges on her hands like bruises.

She'll have to re-do it, when she stops crying.

Marianne sits down on the edge of her bed, slips her hand beneath her pillow, and pulls out the gray stone bottle Bog gave her, the one that had been full of that disgusting headache cure. She strokes her thumb over the sides of it, feeling the texture of the stone.

Bog must have brought this from the dark forest, she thinks. It's rougher hewn than anything made by fairies or elves or brownies. Asymmetrical, too, the facets of the rock allowed to follow their own natural shape rather than forced into artificial symmetry.

She turns it over in her hands. There's a mark etched into the bottom of the bottle, too, she notices. A circle with another, smaller circle inside it, flanked by two curved vertical lines, and crowned by a line curved like an empty bowl.

The design of the head of Bog's staff, Marianne realizes. She rubs her thumb over the carved lines, and then, feeling supremely foolish, lifts it to her lips and kisses it.

Embarrassed heat flares in her cheeks, for all she's alone in the room. She stuffs the bottle quickly beneath her pillow once more. Then she rises and goes to her dressing table, repairs her makeup, and moves to the door.

She steps into the hall, and as she does, a little cloud of dust falls on her head. Coughing, Marianne squints up at the lintel of the door. The chambermaid must have forgotten to dust it. Forgotten several times, considering the amount of dust. It smells odd, too—almost floral. Marianne wrinkles her nose and stops craning her neck upwards, and then she nearly jumps out of her skin because Roland is right there, his face entirely too close; what is—

The punch is more instinct than decision. Just like the first time, the blow sends him sprawling to the floor.

"Buttercup—" he says weakly, clutching the side of his head.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" Marianne snarls, wings snapping out in a threat display.

Roland makes a noise of protest and Marianne advances on him. He scrambles to his feet. She opens her mouth to shout at him, but—

—the sound of laughter and footsteps, coming around the bend in the corridor, makes her close her mouth and grit her teeth in frustration instead.

"Stay away from me, Roland," she hisses, "I'm not going to be so nice, next time."

She whirls on her heel, wings furling, and walks away from him.

Roland stands staring after her for a long moment, his mouth open.

What—?

But—but he'd followed the instructions! The love potion trap he'd set atop her doorframe, ready to fall on her as she'd stepped into the corridor had been perfectly placed; it fell on her beautifully, and he had definitely been the first person she'd seen after getting dusted; he'd made very sure of that!

But the love potion hadn't even come close to working on her! She'd punched him! Again!

A trio of ladies turns the corner of the corridor and waves at him, giggling; Roland gives them an automatic smile and a wink, but his mind is completely on his dilemma.

The ladies pass on, turning another corner, leaving him alone in the corridor once more. He pulls the bottle of the remaining love potion from his pocket and looks at it. It still glows faintly with magic.

Was he supposed to use the whole thing on her?

He'd never be able to get Marianne to hold still long enough for him to empty the entire bottle over her!

Oh, but surely he wasn't meant to use the entire bottle; there is a very large amount of potion dust in there. It would be unreasonable to expect anyone to hold still long enough to empty the bottle over them, even if they weren't as exceptionally uncooperative as Marianne.

And yet—the potion hadn't worked.

Roland taps his finger against the bottle.

There has to be a reason. And he is going to find out what it is.

He'll just have to get Lady Plum talking about her love potion again; that won't be hard.

Roland tucks the bottle of love potion in his pocket again and moves away down the corridor.

* * *

 Bog shifts a little uncomfortably under Marianne's gaze. She's looking at him very intently and she is—really unfairly beautiful.

He gives the sword in his hand an experimental twirl, testing the weight, trying to get a feel for the blade. He's always been better with a staff.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat, "well—it's been a while since I've done this, so—just bear that in mind."

Marianne nods without taking her eyes off of him. Bog swallows and takes up the opening stance of the sword dance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> notes: The song that Bog and Marianne sing in this chapter is a real song, called Tabhair dom do Lámh. The sword dancing in this fic is based on Scottish dirk dancing. The headcanon about goblins hearing certain types of music differently is my explanation for the way that they seem to react with actual pain to Dawn singing "I Can't Help Myself" and yet enjoy singing themselves and don't have a negative reaction to Marianne singing "Straight On".
> 
> I hope you all liked the new chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

Marianne and Bog keep their eyes on each other as they move through step she’s just learned, their feet weaving as they circle each other, both of their blades flashing silver as they spin them, moving them in a pattern. One turn in with the swords spinning in their right hands, then a step inwards that brings the two of them closer as they both switch their still-spinning swords to their left hands.

Another turn, the swords moving in another pattern the entire time, and then one more step inwards, bringing Bog and Marianne close enough to change swords with each other, their hands and feet still constantly moving. The steps and the movement of their hands gets faster until, again, they change swords.

The blades clash together in the air as their feet come to a sudden stop, ending the dance.

“You,” Bog says, panting for breath, and looking down at her, “have got a natural talent for this.”

Marianne, only slightly out of breath, smirks up at him.

“I’ve always picked up physical skills quickly,” she says, in a low, wicked tone.

(and all at once he is very aware of how close she’s standing and—)

Marianne steps back from him suddenly, her shoulders and wings drawing in. Bog steps back quickly from her, giving her space. Had he made her uncomfortable? He’d probably been staring at her, hadn’t he.

She lowers her sword, then makes a face and gives an awkward laugh.

“Sorry,” she says, “that—was a really conceited thing to say, huh? You probably think I’m getting as bad as Roland—”

“It’s not conceit,” Bog says, his voice rougher than he’d like, “t’ have an accurate idea of your own strengths, Marianne.”

She looks taken aback at this answer. Bog clears his throat.

“I’m not surprised at you pickin’ this up so fast,” he says, striving for a light tone, “considerin’ how good you are with a sword anyway. Did you pick fightin’ up just as quickly?”

Marianne lips twist into a grimace.

“The first time?” she says. “Or the second time?”

Bog frowns, not understanding.

“The first time I started learning to use a sword was two years ago,” she says, “but I stopped after a few months. I didn’t pick it up again until—”

She cuts herself off, shaking her head, and then looks up at him, gives him a bitter smile.

“Roland used to tell me how cute it was, when I was clumsy,” she says, “so I played it up for him.”

She lifts the sword up suddenly with both hands, her eyes wide and her grip shaky, and if Bog didn’t know better he’d believe she’d never held a sword before.

“Oh—” she says, feet moving in what looks like an uncertain pattern.

She lets one ankle turn, lets herself stumble.

“Oh!” she says again, and allows herself fall on the couch, graceful once more as she turns the blade of her sword down and away from herself, placing it on the floor with precision.

“So stupid,” she mutters, looking down at the floor.

“Why in the _world_ ,” Bog can’t help asking, “is that _idiot_ still _here_?”

Marianne looks up at him, frowning slightly.

“What do you mean?” she says.

“Why didn’t you have him banished?” Bog says.

He sets his own sword down on Marianne’s dressing table with what is probably an unnecessary amount of force because he just—

“I don’t undersand,” he says, “he was _unfaithful to you_ , Marianne! And everyone just acts as if it didn’t happen! They’re all _polite_ to him! How can they all—your father!—your sister, even!—they all—”

“They don’t know.”

Bog stops and looks at her. She’s looking away from him now, towards her window.

“What do you mean, they don’t know?” he says slowly.

“I didn’t tell them,” Marianne says, still not looking at him. “I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let them know how—how stupid I’d been.”

“…but you told me,” Bog says.

She looks at him again.

“Yes, well. I didn’t know you,” she says, “I didn’t expect your opinion of me to matter.”

She flashes him a quick, tight smile, the kind of smile that looks like it hurts.

“Does it matter?” Bog asks.

Marianne scowls at him.

“ _Yes, of course it matters,_ ” Marianne says, her tone almost vicious. “I l—like you, Bog. Just because I didn’t expect to like you doesn’t mean I don’t.”

Bog’s breath catches.

“I—like you, too, Marianne,” he says.

She swallows, her angry expression fading, melting away like the last snowfall of winter, leaving something raw and vulnerable behind, like the bare ground after the first thaw of spring.

“Do you?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

“Of course I like you, Marianne,” he says, giving her the best smile he can manage, “though I will admit I wasna’ expectin’ to, either.”

She smiles at him, a fleeting, uncertain smile.

“Yes,” she says, “I don’t—I’m sure you didn’t know what you were getting into. But—but we are friends, aren’t we? We’re friends?”

“Yes,” Bog says, “yes, we’re friends.”

“And we’ll always be friends?” Marianne asks, the trembling in her voice more noticeable now. “No matter what?”

Understanding pierces his heart like a thorn.

Oh—she’s worrying about—she’s trying to make sure he won’t be too hurt, when she asks him for the divorce.

Sorrow sticks in his throat like a stone. He swallows it down.

“Of course,” Bog says. “Of course we will.”

Marianne’s face is very pale now. He clears his throat.

“An’ we—we work well together, too,” he says, “don’t you think, Marianne?”

She’s gripping the armrest of the sofa very tightly, Bog notices, her fingernails digging into the fabric.

“Yes,” Marianne says. “Yes, we do.”

Bog swallows. Does that—

—does that mean she might consider—?

“Would you like to come with me tomorrow?” he asks, the words coming too fast, “When I go to the Dark Forest?”

Marianne goes very still at that, her spine very straight.

“—yes,” she says, “Yes, I would like that.”

* * *

Later that night, after he’s left her, Bog paces his own bedroom restlessly.

Marianne agreed that they worked well together, and she said she wants to come to the Dark Forest tomorrow.

He hasn't ever taken her there, before; it hasn’t—

It honestly didn’t ever occur to him that she might want to see the Dark Forest. Which was clearly an unforgivable oversight on his part; as Queen, she of course wants to see the other half of her kingdom.

Bog pauses in his pacing, looks over at the top of his desk.

Where the two divorce contracts he’s drawn up lay.

One contract that severs the Dark Forest from the Fairy Kingdom once more, leaving him as the king of the Dark Forest and Marianne as queen of the Fairy Kingdom.

And one contract that leaves their kingdom united, with both of them co-rulers, and with the a clause guaranteeing that the first child of Marianne and whoever it is that she marries will be named the eventual heir to the kingdom.

He’s planning on giving both contracts to Marianne, as soon as he can force himself to do it, planning letting her choose which arrangement she prefers. He had thought that the possibility of her choosing the second contract, the one that leaves them co-rulers, was unlikely in the extreme, but—

She agreed that they worked well together. And she’s coming with him to see the Dark Forest tomorrow. And so maybe—maybe if he can show her how wonderful the Forest can be, if he can make her love his kingdom, even though she cannot love him—

Then he might have a hope of convincing her to choose the contract that leaves their kingdom united, the contract that allows him to work with her, rule with her, to see her each day.

It’s not only his heart that wants to keep their kingdom as one—he really believes that both lands are truly better off this way. The new law code that he and Marianne have yet to finish is already so much more sensible than either of their countries’ original law codes. Practical. And having someone to discuss each decision with, knowing he won’t have to choose which steps to take until they both agree—that has been such a relief, and has definitely made the decisions better and more thoroughly reasoned. They really do work very well together.

Bog resumes his pacing, determined to think of everything in the Dark Forest that might interest Marianne.

* * *

Marianne rises early the next morning. Nerves, she’s pretty sure. The same nerves that ensured she didn’t sleep very well.

Bog had agreed, when she said they were friends, had agreed that they would be friends, even after the divorce.

And then he said that they worked well together, and he’s taking her to see the Dark Forest today—

An indication, possibly, that he might be willing to rule together with her, even after they were no longer married?

It’s stupid to hope, but Marianne can’t help it. She hopes. She hopes he’ll be willing to continue ruling with her, hopes he’ll allow the two of them to work together even if they can’t be together. She hopes it with every piece of her brittle, already-broken heart.

Dressed, her makeup complete, Marianne rises from her dressing table. Her eyes fall on her bed as she does so, and she remembers, suddenly, lying on it and feeling as if the world was ending because her kingdom had been conquered and she was being made to marry the Bog King.

And now—

The kingdom has never functioned so smoothly and she feels as if the world is ending because Bog is going to divorce her.

She sits on the edge of the bed, a bit dizzy. Everything is—everything is so different. From what she thought it would be. Her entire life is different from what she always thought it would be.

Marianne bites the inside of her cheek and looks down at her pillow.

_You’re being silly again_ , she tells herself sternly, but she still slides her hand beneath her pillow and pulls out Bog’s bottle.

_So silly_ , she thinks.

(Oh, but she’d been lucky, the last time, after she kissed it. Bog had said they were friends, after the last time, had told her he thought they worked well together, had invited her to see his kingdom, and Marianne will take every bit of luck she can get.)

Marianne turns the bottle over and presses her lips to the rune mark.

A knock on the door makes her jump guiltily to her feet, her wings snapping out.

“Yes!” she says.

The door opens and Bog steps into her bedroom. Heat flares in Marianne’s face.

(The bottle is still in her hand. _The bottle is still in her hand._ The _bottle_. Is still. In her _hand_.)

“You’re ready, then?” he asks.

“Yes!” she says, “Ready, yes!”

(Her fingers are curled around the bottle; hopefully hiding it from his view enough that he won’t be able to tell what it is. She can’t put it beneath her pillow with him watching, though; what can she do with it; what can she—)

She sets the bottle down as casually as she can on her bedside table, and, as casually as she can, immediately steps in front of it, so that her body and wings are blocking Bog’s view of the table.

“All ready!” she says brightly. “Completely ready; lead the way!”

She leaves her wings out as an extra precaution until he’s through the doorway, furls them only when it’s time to step through herself, and closes the door as quickly as possible.

Bog is quiet, as they make their way out of the palace to begin the journey, his heart heavy. She’d had something in her hand, when he’d walked into her bedroom. A love token, judging from the way she’d flushed and kept it hidden from him.

Ah, well, he tells himself, it’s not as if you didn’t already know she’s in love.

* * *

“—really,” Roland says, when Lady Plum’s flow of words finally halts for a moment. “That is _fascinatin’._ And it really works _every_ time? The potion hasn’t _ever_ failed?”

“Oh!” Lady Plum says, drawing closer to him and lowering her voice, “Well. Are you asking about _that fateful day?_ ”

Roland, who has no idea what fateful day she’s referring to, has never even heard of any fateful day before this exact moment in time, and was definitely not asking about it, doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re too quick for me, Lady Plum,” he says, “seein’ through me like that.”

(it’s amazing, how useful gossip can be, and judging from how confidential Lady Plum is being, this must be a very juicy bit of gossip indeed.)

Lady Plum gives a cascade of bright laughter at the flattery. Roland gives his hair a twist, letting it fall just right over his brow.

“Now, won’t you tell me about it?” he asks with his most winning smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments! I really love getting them. And I hope you are all still enjoying the story!


	8. Chapter 8

The Dark Forest, Marianne thinks, as they fly through it, isn’t really as dark as she had always pictured it. The trees overhead do make it shadowed, but golden sunlight still dapples much of the forest floor.

The great river that runs along the western boundary of the Fairy Kingdom bends away from the forest and does not enter it, but there are little streams that twine through the tree trunks, and small pools hidden like secrets behind tree roots and boulders and thickets.

People live scatted in the Dark Forest, not in orderly rows of houses like the brownies and the fairies and the elves do in the Fairy Kingdom, but here and there as they please. Frog-like kappas and fish-like undines peer up at Bog and Marianne curiously from pools, trolls blink up at them from the mouths of their burrows, and sprites hovering around their hives buzz a little louder as the two of them pass by. Marianne waves at one small sprite, who flutters excitedly in the air and waves back.

“This way,” Bog says, flying through a tangle of thorny branches.

Marianne tries to follow, but her wings are too large; they catch on the thorns with little pinpricks of pain. Bog looks back over his shoulder, and then ducks back to her side of the briars.

“Ah—sorry about tha’,” he says, “I wasna’ thinkin’—we don’t need t’ go through the thorns; there’s another way around—”

“I can fit if you’ll help me,” Marianne says.

Bog blinks, and she sees understanding dawn on his face. His claws click together nervously.

“Oh—” he says, “—if you don’t mind.”

Marianne shakes her head and furls her wings, letting Bog catch her around the waist as she puts her arms around his neck.

“I don’t mind,” she says, hoping that he can’t hear the slight tremble in her voice. “Let’s go.”

The way they’re positioned means she can’t really see his face, just the edge of his jaw, if she turns her head. Marianne swallows.

“Tough girl,” Bog says, and his voice sounds deeper, this close, “Should have known you’d want t’ go this way.”

He spins the two of them, slow and careful, in the air, and the two of them fly into the brambles.

“What’s an adventure,” Marianne says, knowing he must hear the trembling in her voice, hoping he’ll put it down to fear of the thorns, “without a little danger?”

He laughs; Marianne she feels the vibration of it in his chest, where she’s pressed against him, and she swallows and closes her eyes and stops herself from pressing closer to him only by a supreme effort of will.

“Are we going t’ have an adventure, then?” he asks.

Marianne bites the inside of her cheek and resolutely does not shiver.

“Aren’t we already?” she says.

He doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“I suppose we are,” he says, voice low, and this time she does shiver and press herself closer, and then the two of them are out of the thorns and in the sunlight again, and Marianne has to unfurl her wings and let him go.

* * *

It’s fortunate, Bog thinks, that he knows his forest completely, because if it wasn’t for automatic reflexes, he’s pretty sure he would have flown into a tree by now, distracted by the memory of having Marianne in his arms.

It isn’t right, how much he’d enjoyed it, how much he’d enjoyed the way she shivered and pressed herself close to him. She’d been afraid of the thorns, not seeking his touch, and he needs to remember that.

“Oh!” Marianne says, her voice startled, and he looks over at her.

She’s looking at the fern below her; she must have brushed against it, because it’s curled itself inwards. Marianne looks up at him, her face filled with wonder.

“It moves!” she says, and Bog can’t help but smile at her smile.

“These all move,” he says, and brushes his fingertips delicately over another frond.

The plant curls in on itself.

Marianne laughs, a more carefree sound than he’s ever heard from her before.

“That’s amazing!” she says. “Moving plants! I didn’t know you had moving plants!”

Bog laughs as she reaches for another one, touching one leaf lightly. It curls, too. Laughing delightedly, Marianne darts between the plants, brushing one with a wingtip, one with a hand.

“Moving plants!” she says again, stopping to hover in the air before him.

“We’ve got another kind of movin’ plant,” Bog says, grinning at her, “Do you want t’ see?”

“Yes!”

“Close your eyes,” Bog says, on a wild impulse that he can’t quite catch in time to stop.

He’s shocked to find that she does, completely without protest.

Bog stares at Marianne, hovering in the air before him, her eyes closed. She raises her eyebrows.

“Okay, so what now?” she says.

“Ah—” Bog comes back to himself with a start. “Just—give me your hand.”

She holds one hand out for him to take. He does, holding it carefully.

“And come this way,” he says, flying backwards, leading her slowly through the trees. She lets him guide her. “—we can stop here.”

Marianne stops, but, to his surprise, does not immediately pull her hand from his. Bog swallows, looking at her closed eyes, at the slight smile hovering around the edges of her lips.

“Open your eyes,” he says, and she does.

She looks at him, first, her eyes meeting his, and then she looks down and gasps, seeing where he’s taken her.

“They have teeth,” she says.

“They do, yes,” Bog says, grinning at her expression.

“…why do they have teeth?” she asks.

“So they can bite things,” Bog says.

Marianne looks up at him sharply.

“You’re kidding,” she says.

Bog shakes his head.

“Look,” he says, and taps the open mouth of one of the plants with his staff. The two jaws snap shut.

“Okay, so that’s slightly terrifying,” Marianne says.

Bog laughs.

“What’s an adventure without a little danger, tough girl?”

Marianne makes a face at him and he laughs again.

“They eat insects and things like tha’,” Bog says, “Th’ sprites do have to warn their children t’ keep away, though.”

Marianne’s fingers tighten around his; he glances down at their joined hands automatically, and Marianne takes a sharp breath and lets go of him quickly, as if she’s just realized she’s still holding onto him.

“They’re, uh—they’re…lovely,” she says. “Lovely murder plants.”

Bog snickers.

“Watch,” he says, and he steps onto the closed plant. He taps the next, still-open one with his staff, taking a step forward at the same time, timing it so that he steps onto it just as it’s closed, continuing on down the row of plants. He hops off the last one and into the air, spinning around to face her. Marianne looks torn between glaring and laughing; Bog raises one eyebrow at her challengingly.

To his utter delight, her chin goes up and she eyes the next line of still-open plants as if she’s judging the distance between each one. She looks up at him and smirks.

And then she furls her wings and dives for the first plant, landing at the edge of the mouth, balanced on her palms. She flips herself over to the next one, and then the next, never stopping until she reaches the last one, then launches herself into the air, wings snapping out, spreading gloriously.

“Ha!” she says.

Bog has to catch his breath at how absolutely beautiful she is.

But she’s looking at him, so he laughs and claps his hands for her. She bows graciously to him and an invisible audience all around them as she flutters down to his level.

“Thank you, thank you,” she says.

“You seem to be enjoyin’ your adventure,” Bog says.

“Definitely,” Marianne says, grinning at him. “I should have done this years ago.”

Bog looks at her curiously as he leads the way back to the path that will take them to his castle.

“I always—I always said,” Marianne says, “that when I was queen, I was going to go into the Dark Forest and talk to—well, to you, I guess, although I didn’t know it was going to be you.”

“And what would we be talkin’ about?” Bog asks, mesmerized by the thought of it: Queen Marianne coming into his castle, demanding to speak to him. He wonders if his first glimpse of her in that world would have been as staggering as meeting her at their wedding had been.

“An alliance, opening trade routes, cultural exchange,” Marianne says, shrugging. “Stuff like that.”

Bog takes a sharp breath.

“So you—always wanted t’ ally the Fairy Kingdom with the Dark Forest,” he says slowly.

There’s a beat of silence before she answers.

“Well, yes,” she says, “don’t you—I always thought we would work better that way.”

“…together,” Bog says, his heart beating too hard, suddenly.

There’s another short little pause before Marianne answers.

“Yes, together,” she says. “And—I do think the Dark Forest and the Fairy Kingdom—work better together, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bog says quickly, hope welling in his chest, “yes, I do.”

They’re both silent, for several minutes after that. It seems—strangely fraught, the silence does. Bog doesn’t know how to break it.

(should he ask? should he ask now, if she’d be willing to continue ruling with him after the divorce?)

He glances over at her.

No, he decides, no, not now. The—the moment when he could have asked has passed. Resuming that line of—conversation, after so long a silence, would be—uncomfortable.

After a few more minutes of rather excruciating silence, Bog clears his throat and touches down on the ground. Marianne follows.

“So, ah—we’re nearly there,” he says, pointing, “if you look, you’ll be able t’ see the castle.”

Marianne looks, her eyes going wide as she catches sight of it, and Bog takes the opportunity afforded by her distraction to pick one of the nearby flowers, a deep blue one. She turns back to him and he holds the flower out to her.

(he will deny absolutely, if asked, that his entire purpose in landing her was actually to pick one of these flowers for her.)

She looks at it warily.

“Is it going to try to eat me?” she asks.

Bog laughs.

“So suspicious!” he says.

She grins at him, and so, quickly, before his nerve fails him, he tucks the flower behind her ear.

“All right, well! Let’s go, then!” he says in a rush, and takes off again, in the direction of the castle.

Marianne stands very still for a long moment, and then she takes off, too, and follows him.

After several seconds, there is a quiet rustling in the undergrowth.

The Imp emerges into the little clearing, its tail switching back and forth excitedly as it sniffs the air.

The two flying ones hadn’t noticed the Imp, it knew, although it had been following them for some time. They had been too caught up in each other; too busy being in love and unhappy to see the Imp. It could smell it on them, the sweet scent of affection undercut with the bitter smell of what they thought was unrequited love.

Silly flying ones; very silly. The Imp shakes its head, and then wriggles all over delightedly.

Oh, but the flying one with the pretty purple wings had smelled of something _else_ , too, something that the Imp hasn’t smelled in ages—the smell had been faint, incomplete—

—but the Imp had recognized it nevertheless: the divine, delicious, addictive scent of the Love Potion.

The potion hadn’t taken hold of the purple-winged one; the Imp could tell. But if it follows the flying ones to wherever it is they’re going, then perhaps they’ll lead it to where the _rest_ of the Love Potion can be found. And won't everything be wonderful then! Love for everyone!

Sniffing the air again, its pointed ears pricking up, the Imp scurries swiftly in the direction of the flying ones.

* * *

Roland, free at last from Lady Plum’s loquacity and safe behind his own locked bedroom door, grinds his teeth together in frustration.

Already in love with someone else. _Already in love with someone else._

The potion doesn’t work if the person dusted is already in love with someone else.

And Roland is fairly certain he knows who the person Marianne is in love with is. When he’d heard from a giggling Celeste that the King and Queen had been singing together yesterday, during the preparations for Dawn’s wedding, he hadn’t known how to account for it.

He accounts for it now.

Marianne is, unbelievable as it might seem, _actually in love with her husband._

How! How can this be happening?! She was plotting to murder him not a month ago!

Roland hadn’t believed her, when she told him that the coup was off, had thought she just meant to cut him out, meant to keep him from any of the glory. He’d made plans to deal with that situation, the situation of Marianne trying to command his army without him. He has a whole speech planned, ready for the first indication that she intended to make a move, ready to tell each of his commanders—

_the queen is a young and impetuous girl with no real experience, no proper training; the queen is flighty and uncertain, can’t be trusted to stick with a decision—_

(a pause here, to look pensively into the distance with an expression of noble suffering as everyone remembers how she left him at the altar)

_—King Dagda has spoken to me privately, though, and he says that now is not the time to move against the usurper._

A plausible lie; Roland knows better than to try to involve King Dagda in any coup; the old man is far too cautious and soft-hearted; the troops know that as well, know that, had Roland been allowed to use the kind of ruthless tactics he prefers, they wouldn’t have lost the damned war in the first place. But King Dagda had refused, when Roland had advised that they set the Dark Forest on fire in several strategic places, trap the Bog King’s army between the flames, and let them burn.

But it's just that soft-hearted caution of King Dagda that would convince the army that Roland spoke the truth.

Oh, he has no doubt that he could have ruined any rebellion Marianne tried on her own; he planned for that.

What he didn’t plan for is her having fallen in love with her goblin husband!

How is Roland supposed to get this coup going without a single member of the Fairy Kingdom’s royal family’s cooperation? His troops might adore him, but he knows better than to count on mere affection making them willing to commit treason.

Love is an illusion; people think they feel it because of the things you can _do_ _for them._

Success is not a guarantee with any coup, and his men will be well aware that Roland can do nothing for them from a prison cell, should he fail. They won’t risk it. Not without a royal directive.

If only that damned love potion had worked, then he could have gotten Marianne to give her approval and—

Roland goes very still.

A plan begins to assemble itself in his mind.

Does he still have—?

He moves to his desk swiftly and yanks the drawer open, rifles through the contents, all of the love tokens he’s collected from all of his dalliances—

He pulls out a folded piece of parchment, unfolds it, reads the words written in Marianne’s handwriting:

> _Tonight. At the ball. I’ll give the signal._
> 
> _—Marianne_

The note had been in reference to a party they both attended, early in their courtship; they’d snuck out together so that he could tell her how beautiful she was in the moonlight and so on and so forth.

But it was vague enough that it might be about anything.

Enough to convince the troops, make them willing to move. He can pretend anything he likes is Marianne’s signal at the wedding ball tomorrow; they won’t know any better.

But to convince everyone else, later—

Roland digs through the contents of the desk drawer again. Marianne hadn’t ever given him any really personal love tokens, nothing that was undeniably hers. More’s the pity. No rings with her name on it, no locks of hair. But—

He pulls out the cheap little locket Bella gave him, back before they parted ways, before she realized that his engagement with Marianne hadn't just been a political one, with no affection on either side, as he had claimed.

Roland flicks open the catch of the locket. Inside is a lock of brown hair, tied with a blue silk ribbon. He takes it out of the locket, places the lock atop Marianne’s note.

Bella and Marianne always did have the same shade of hair.

And for extra insurance, perhaps, another love token seemingly from Marianne?

Well. Her majesty is gone today, gone to the Dark Forest with her husband. And the entire rest of the court is busy finishing up the arrangements for the wedding of Princess Dawn that’s to take place tomorrow.

Nobody will notice if Roland happens to slip into the queen’s rooms while she’s gone.

And while he’s there—

Roland folds the note carefully around the lock of hair, slides them both in his pocket.

With the Love Potion.

It really is so very _unbelievable_ that the fairy queen is in love with the goblin who usurped her kingdom.

He has no doubt every member of the Fairy Court with think so, too, once they know.

* * *

“So that sister of yours is getting married,” Griselda says, and takes a drink of tea.

“Tomorrow, yes,” Marianne says, “and—since it’s a royal wedding, of course everyone in the entire kingdom is invited to come, but Dawn—and I—both wanted to be sure to extend a special invitation to you.” She shoots a dark look at Bog out of the corners of her eyes. “We do apologize for the short notice, but we were under the impression that the invitation had already been extended.”

Bog, dipping a maple biscuit in his own cup of tea, has the grace to look abashed.

“Well, that’s very sweet of both of you girls, but—” Griselda begins.

“And you won’t need to worry about the music,” Marianne hastens to assure her. “We’ve figured a way around that.”

Griselda looks faintly surprised at that.

“ _Marianne_ figured it out,” Bog says.

Marianne makes a dismissive sound and he’s the one who frowns at her this time.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Griselda says, and the two of them start at the sound of her voice and look away from each other and over at her again, as if they had forgotten her presence.

Griselda grins at them.

“I’ll come,” she says, “It sounds like fun! I’m sure see I can round up plenty more people who’ll want to come, too.”

Bog and Marianne both let out a relieved breath.

“I’m so glad,” Griselda says. “to hear that she’s marrying that nice elf boy of hers. I do love a love match, don’t you?”

She smiles a little maliciously at Bog, who looks extremely uncomfortable. Marianne’s own smile goes a little frozen around the edges. Griselda must notice this, because she reaches out and pats Marianne’s hand.

“But you two have done all right, too,” Griselda says to her.

Marianne and Bog both wince, and carefully avoid each others’ eyes. Griselda looks back and forth between them with a puzzled frown.

Bog clears his throat.

“Speakin’ of Sunny, Mother,” he says, “I talked t’ him this morning, and he mentioned that he and Dawn would like us t’ bring some of our own musicians, if we can. That way the, ah—Dark Forest guests will still be able to dance some of our own dances, even if they don’t know the Fairy Court dances.”

Marianne looks sharply at him, her eyes wide.

“Bog—” she says.

He looks at her, grinning.

“Yes, of course, Marianne,” he says.

Marianne makes a gleeful noise.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I thought surprisin’ you would be more fun.”

She gives a delighted laugh; Bog, watching her, smiles.

“Just promise that you don’ intend to kill me, tough girl.”

“Oh, no,” she says, laughing, her eyes sparkling, “seriously maim you, at most.”

“I’m lookin’ forward t’ it.”

Griselda’s teacup makes a quiet clink as she places it back in her saucer, and, again, both Marianne and Bog freeze at the sound, and look over at her almost guiltily.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she says, grinning at the two of them widely. “You two just pretend I’m not here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you for the comments! They really help keep me motivated and inspired. I hope you all liked the chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

Nobody is in the corridor when Roland steps into Marianne's bedroom and closes the door.

A dressing table stands agains the wall opposite the bed; he moves to it—cosmetics and brushes stand on the tabletop, not what he's looking for at the moment.

The design of the table is one with which he's familiar; a classical antique by one of the kingdom's best artists. Roland has a cheaper imitation version in his own room. The table is supported by two curved pillars, with two unobtrusive cabinet doors that swing out. He opens the first one, pulls out the top drawer.

The top drawer has more cosmetic and perfume bottles; he'll take a closer look at those later. The middle drawer is filled with various handkerchiefs, ribbons, and underthings; he has no interest in any of that. The bottom drawer contains hairbrushes, combs, and hairpins. Roland pushes it back into place and closes the first cabinet door.

He opens the second cabinet door and pulls out the top drawer.

Quills, ink, parchment, wax for sealing letters; no, he doesn't need that—or perhaps…

Roland slips his hand to the back of the drawer, and finds—ah, yes, there it is.

Marianne's signet ring, with the royal seal of the Fairy Kingdom on it.

So careless, leaving such a thing lying about in her room instead of on her person, but Marianne never did much like wearing jewelry.

He puts it down on the tabletop and opens the second drawer—and then he raises his eyebrows, because inside is an exceptionally ugly…is that some sort of tiny bouquet? Whatever it is, it's hideous, made out of dark purple leaves pinned in a rough, inexpert circle atop a piece of bark, with a violet-colored verbena flower in the center of the circle. He closes that drawer and opens the last one.

Ah, yes, now this is more like it!

Roland takes the jewel case from the drawer, places it on the tabletop and opens it.

Inside is—

_—the crown._

The crown of the Fairy Kingdom, worn by King Dagda before the conquest, and taken up by Marianne during her coronation. Now, Roland pulls it from the box with reverent hands, holds it up, admiring it.

He looks in the mirror and carefully places the crown just so on his head, and gives his own reflection a triumphant smile.

The crown has never looked better than it does on his head, and Roland has never looked better, either.

The temptation to keep it on is great, but Roland takes it from his head. He has work to do. Time enough to admire the way the crown looks on his head when it's there for good.

"Soon, darlin'," he tells the crown, putting it back into the jewel case.

The rest of the contents of the jewel case are less exciting; Marianne really has no love for jewelry. Hmm—a couple pairs of gold ear cuffs, few bracelets, some rings and necklaces that he's never seen her wear, and then—

Yes.

He pulls the necklace from the box. This, he's pretty sure, is the only piece of jewelry he's ever seen her wear multiple times, a string of river pearls that wraps tightly around her throat, with a long chain of gold and pearls that dangles from the clasp in the back and ends in a large pearl shaped like a teardrop, designed to hang provocatively between her wings.

An eye-catching bit of jewelry, especially on Marianne, who normally wears so little adornment. Everyone will recognize it as hers.

Roland places it down on the dressing table and pulls her letter from his pocket. He carefully unfolds the parchment, then places Marianne's necklace next to Bella's lock of hair. Even more carefully, he folds the note again, with the necklace and the lock of hair inside, and his name, in Marianne's handwriting, on the outside, all of the folds crisp and correct. He places the letter facedown on the top of the dressing table and picks up the wax and its accompanying tinder box.

When the letter is sealed, he slips it into his pocket again. He replaces the wax, tinderbox, and signet ring in their places, closes Marianne's jewelry box, puts it away, and opens the drawer that holds her cosmetic bottles again.

He takes the bottle of Love Potion from his pocket and holds it up next to Marianne's collection of bottles, examines them together critically. This is the really tricky part; he'll have to place the love potion so that Marianne won't notice it but a search later by the palace guards will find it easily.

Hmm—in the drawer?

He doesn't have much faith in the guards' intelligence; what if they don't open the drawers? But he can't put it on the tabletop; Marianne is bound to see it.

An empty bottle, then; he can fill one of them with the potion, then put it on the top of the dressing table. It won't catch Marianne's eye because she'll recognize the bottle as one of her own, but when the guards open the bottles on the table, they'll be able to smell the scent of the potion.

He examines each of her cosmetic bottles in turn, but is appalled to find that none of them are empty. What does Marianne do, thrown away each of her cosmetic containers as soon as they're empty? Who ever heard of such a thing?!

She doesn't even have any really nearly empty bottles, the kind where there's hardly any paint left but its your favorite color and no one sells it anymore, so you hoard it for really special occasions. What does she do when they stop making her favorite shade of face powder, just find another one?

All right, Roland tells himself, focus. Think. What to do with the potion…visualize.

He steps back from the dressing table, looking at it closely, then takes several more strides back, to get the full effect of the table in the room.

Hell.

Is he going to have to risk emptying one of her full bottles, filling it with the potion, and hoping it's one she doesn't happen to use tomorrow? Because that's—

Taking another step backwards, Roland finds himself against the wall, next to her bed. He looks down at the bed itself—maybe he can hide it in between two of the petals—beneath her pillow?

And then his gaze happens to fall on the little table at her bedside—

—and the bottle that's on it.

This bottle is noticeably different than any of the others on and in her dressing table; it's made of gray stone, roughly and asymmetrically shaped. He picks it up and takes out the stopper.

Empty. His eyebrows rise. She kept this one, even after it was empty. Kept on her bedside table, what's more, and it's the only thing kept on her bedside table. Definitely a sentimental thing, then. He looks at the bottle more closely, examines it, turns it over in his hands.

Judging by its material and general ugliness, he's fairly certain that this bottle came from the Dark Forest, instead of the Fairy Kingdom. Something given to her, perhaps, by—

Roland turns the bottle upside down and looks at the bottom of it, and then a smile spreads itself slowly across his face.

The bottle is marked with the same symbol that's on the Bog King's staff.

 _Perfect_.

* * *

Bog's mother gathers everything together in an impressively short amount of time—goblins, luggage, musical instruments and all. This is certainly for the best, since the return trip to the Fairy Kingdom will take more time than Marianne and Bog's journey to his castle had—they'll be walking, this time, by necessity; very few of the denizens of the Dark Forest have wings.

"You know, you might want to re-think this entrance," Marianne says to Bog, as they cross the drawbridge made by the giant badger skull's lower jaw.

"What's wrong with th' entrance?" Bog says, sounding hurt.

Griselda rolls her eyes.

"It's not very cheerful, is it," she says, "over and over again, I've told him that! Yeesh, throw some paint on it at least, plant a few plants. How are you ever gonna convince your wife to come stay here a while if you won't let me liven the place up?"

Marianne feels herself flush. She resolutely does not so much as glance over at Bog.

"Er—" she says, "I was, uh, actually talking about—how the skull kind of looks like it needs some structural reinforcement…"

Griselda bursts into laughter.

"Ha!" she says, "It's no wonder you two get along so well! You're just his type!"

Marianne swallows and forces a smile. Griselda really doesn't seem to be trying to be hurtful; Marianne is pretty sure she doesn't know the actual circumstances of her son's marriage, or his plans for divorce.

"You've packed very lightly," Marianne comments to Griselda, changing the subject with as much grace as she can manage, "are you planning on returning to the Dark Forest very soon after the wedding? You'd certainly be welcome, if you wished to stay for a longer visit, and I'm sure the rest of your things can be sent for later."

"You're sweet," Griselda says, "I think I would like to stay a while! But I don't need a lot of luggage these days. When you're my age, you gotta face up to the fact that dressing up just doesn't have much effect anymore. Now, when I was younger, mind you, it was different. Hoo—wasn't I hot! And didn't I turn heads when I got all dressed up! I remember I had this one dress—"

"Mother, please," Bog groans, "Marianne doesn't want t' hear about this!"

"Oh, yes Marianne does," says Marianne.

Bog glares at her and Marianne snickers and turns expectantly to Griselda, who grins at her.

"I remember I had this one dress," Griselda says, "—red as anything, and I put red ribbons around my horns—which was quite scandalous back then, by the way—the first time I wore it was the night I met Bog's father, and—"

Griselda continues to talk as the troupe makes its way into the thickets of the Dark Forest.

For a moment, all is silent and still near the entrance to the castle, and then the Imp emerges from its hiding place near the drawbridge mouth and scurries along after them.

* * *

Marianne decides, as the fairy palace at last comes into sight, that walking is highly overrated. She's never walked this far in her life; she can't imagine having to do this always. How do people without wings manage? It's so slow—the moon is on its way down from the apex of the sky and they're just now reaching the palace.

And walking is so _tiring_.

Bog had noticed when she'd really started to feel the effects of the unaccustomed exercise, and had made her join him in flying intermittently for the rest of the journey. But even so, her feet ache and she is more tired than she has ever been before. She wants to weep with joy as the palace doors swing open.

Once they're inside, the palace steward and a small army of liveried servants take over, sweeping Bog's mother and the other goblins off to their rooms for the night, leaving Bog and Marianne alone in the entrance hall.

Marianne breathes a sigh of relief and closes her eyes, swaying slightly with exhaustion. The sound of Bog's quiet chuckle makes her open her eyes again and look at him. He's not holding his staff, she notices, rather inanely. He must have given it to one of the servants to put away."

"You look like you're about t' fall over, tough girl," Bog says. "Maybe I'd better walk you t' your room."

"So far away," Marianne complains, reeling a bit as they set off in the direction of her rooms, "I think I'd rather sleep in the corridor."

Bog laughs.

"No, you don't," he says, "th' floor's much too hard."

"But it looks so comfortable," Marianne says wistfully, reaching for it. "So—horizontal—"

"Ah-ah-ah," Bog says, his voice rich with amusement as he catches her wrist and stops her from reaching for the floor, "no sleeping on the floor, Marianne! I'm taking you t' bed."

Marianne stumbles, eyes going wide. Bog catches her around the waist.

The corridor is empty; for a long moment the two of them stand frozen like that, Marianne's wrist in Bog's hand, his other arm around her waist, and her free hand flat against his chest.

Bog looks almost as startled as she does, Marianne thinks, feeling, all of a sudden, terribly awake.

He swallows; Marianne follows the movement of his throat with her eyes.

"—maybe you should carry me."

She doesn't mean to say it, wants to bite her own tongue off immediately after it slips out, especially when she sees Bog's eyes go even wider, feels his grip on her go stiff, uncomfortable.

(what is wrong with her; of course he hadn't meant it the way it had sounded, the way she wanted him to mean it)

"—never—" _mind_ , she starts to say, and then forgets how to speak for a moment as Bog suddenly sweeps her off her feet and into his arms.

"—oh," she says, instead.

He holds her like she weighs almost nothing; one of his arms hooked beneath her knees, his other arm around her waist, beneath her wings.

"You don't have to," she whispers. "I can walk."

Her arms are around his neck; she doesn't remember deciding to put them there.

"Do you want me t' put you down, Marianne?" he asks.

The way he says her name makes her feel as if her whole body is alight, like she's burning in his arms.

"No," she says, "no, I don't want you to put me down."

For a moment, she thinks he might answer, but he doesn't, just begins walking in the direction of her rooms.

The walk to her rooms is torture; she never wants it to end.

But it has to, of course; it has to end. As Bog stops in front of her door, Marianne leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

"—Marianne—I need t' talk to you," he says, and she hears in his voice the ending of all things.

_No. No, no, no—_

"Not tonight," she says, feeling desperate, "don't let's talk about it tonight. Tomorrow. We'll talk about it tomorrow—"

She lets herself slide out of his arms and down his body slowly, pressed against him, her arms still around his neck. She looks up into his face, so close to her own; his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide in the dimly lit corridor.

"I don't want to _talk_ tonight," she says recklessly, and takes one arm from around his neck, reaches blindly behind herself to turn the handle of her door, to push the door open. "Bog, please; I need—"

"Marianne?" Dawn's voice says from behind her.

Bog lets go of Marianne so fast that she stumbles, almost falls. She turns quickly to look at—

"Dawn?" she says, "what are you doing here?"

Dawn, cocooned in a blanket on Marianne's bed, blinks at them sleepily.

"Oh—sorry—I was waiting to talk to you," she says, with a yawn, "but you took so long I think I feel asleep."

"I'll—I'll let you two talk," Bog says.

Marianne turns to look at him, her mouth open to say—

She has no idea what she wants to say.

_(I need you; I want you; take me to bed, just this once, just this one time, please—)_

It's a good thing Dawn is here.

"Thank you," Marianne says, and Bog leaves, closing the door behind himself.

Definitely a good thing Dawn is here, no matter that it sort of makes her want to scream. This is for the best.

Marianne must have been out of her senses. Bog loves someone else. Bog is going to divorce her. _He loves someone else, Marianne._

Marianne rubs a hand over her face; Dawn yawns again.

"Did it go okay?" Dawn asks.

For a moment, Marianne actually has no idea what Dawn is referring to, her mind still caught on a moment just outside of her bedroom door, on the memory of it and that aching twist of want in her stomach and—

"—yes," Marianne says, "yes—ah—Bog's mother is here, now; and a whole bunch of other people, too. She was really excited to come."

Dawn makes a happy sound. The joy in it cuts at Marianne.

Is it always going to be like this? Is other people's happiness and love always going to hurt her this way?

She turns away and begins pulling off her armor, to keep Dawn from seeing her face.

"You were gone so long," Dawn says, "I was starting to worry something had happened."

Guilt twists Marianne's stomach. How can she resent Dawn's happiness?

"No, everything was fine," she says.

Briefly, she considers taking off the rest of her clothes and changing into a nightdress, but decides that it is really not worth the effort. She moves to the bed and flops down on it facedown, the movement calculatedly exaggerated to make Dawn laugh.

"We walked back," Marianne groans theatrically, voice muffled by the petals. "The entire way. Do you know how much walking that is? It's too much. Much too much."

Dawn giggles and Marianne turns over on her side to grin at her sister. Dawn lies down next to her, mirroring her.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Marianne asks.

"Oh," Dawn says, "I don't know, I just—I mean, I stayed with you the night before you got married."

"Are you planning on cursing Sunny's name and throwing things, like I did?" Marianne asks dryly.

Dawn laughs. Marianne's heart hurts at the laughter again, but she smiles at her sister.

"No, of course not!" Dawn says. "I would, however, just like to say I told you so."

Marianne gives her a bemused smile.

"I told you that the two of you would get along!" Dawn says.

Marianne covers her discomfiture with a laugh.

"Yes," she says, "I do remember you mentioning that a mutual hatred of love would be a wonderful foundation for a marriage."

Dawn smacks her shoulder playfully.

"Please," she scoffs, "You know you secretly like being married to him!"

Marianne's smile freezes on her lips.

"—yes," she says, after only a slight pause, and is amazed to hear her voice so calm, " it hasn't been so bad. We're—friends. That's what really counts."

Dawn makes a noise of agreement and turns over onto her back.

"Yeah," she says happily, "it is."

She yawns again, which makes Marianne yawn, too. She steals half of Dawn's blanket.

"Hey! That's mine!"

"Yeah, well it's my bed," Marianne says, "so I make the rules!"

Dawn pulls a little more of the blanket over to her side, so Marianne puts her cold feet against her legs in retaliation.

"Agh!"

Marianne snickers and curls up close to her sister.

Her chest still aches and her stomach is still twisting with dread at the thought of tomorrow, but she can let Dawn have this, now, this moment of bright and unsullied happiness.

The tiny stone bottle is still on the bedside table; Marianne remembers. She should move it, hide it beneath her pillow again.

She'll wait until Dawn's asleep, she thinks, and then she'll hide the bottle.

(it's her last thought before slipping into sleep herself.)

* * *

Bog walks quickly to his rooms, hands clenched into fists, claws digging into his own palms.

He is horribly certain that, had Dawn not been in Marianne's room, he would have, as soon as the door was shut, pinned Marianne against it and kissed her until they both were breathless, and then begged her to let him take her to bed just this one time, just this once.

 _I'm taking you to bed_ , he'd said to her in the hall, a slip of the tongue that he had immediately regretted. It seemed she hadn't caught it, though, because she'd asked him to carry her to her room instead of pushing herself away from him.

Bog had tried, _oh_ , he'd _tried_ to stay rational as he carried her to her rooms, tried not to be overwhelmed by the weight of her in his arms, the brush of her wings, the way she'd wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Bringing up the subject of the divorce as he stood in front of her bedroom door is the hardest thing he's ever done.

And then Marianne had said _not tonight_ , and she'd said _please_ and she'd said _I need_ , and he'd thought, for one mad moment, that she might say _you; I need **you**._

Absolute insanity, he tells himself, slamming his bedroom door shut behind himself. Of course she doesn't need him.

He makes himself look at his desktop, at the papers there.

Tomorrow. She'd said _we'll talk about it tomorrow._

 _Tomorrow_ , Bog tells himself grimly. As soon as she has time to see him.

* * *

In the entrance hall of the palace, the Imp emerges from its hiding place behind a decorative potted plant. The last of the fading moonbeams slanting through the hall windows make its white fur seem almost to glow as it stands on its hind legs and scents the air.

So much life! So many people! hAll of them feeling so many things! The people are gone now, of course, but the trails of their emotions hang in the air, fading slowly. It would be easy to become distracted by the tangled scents.

But—

The Imp sniffs the air delicately again.

Yes—there! There! The sweet, heady scent of the Love Potion!

The Imp moves down the hall and into the corridors of the palace, seeking the source of the scent, in and out of the shadows and the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> notes: the idea that the space between a fairy's wings is considered sexy originates with Selkie_de_Suzie. And the character of Bella, mentioned in several previous chapters, was given her name by VairaWrites.
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments! I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

The sound of Dawn screaming rips Marianne out of sleep. She sits bolt upright, immediately on the alert, reaching automatically for any sort of weapon that may be at hand, but her sword is on the other side of the room, and she comes up with nothing but her pillow.

She sees the creature perched at the foot of her bed before she sees Dawn frantically pointing at it. The creature makes a chittering noise and leaps off of the bed; Marianne’s pillow catches it in midair, knocking it to the ground.

Something small and hard falls from its paw and rolls over the stone floor with a tinkling noise.

Dawn is still screaming, her wings flapping wildly. Marianne is nearly smacked in the face by one as she launches herself off the bed at the creature. She lands on the floor in a crouch and the little creature makes an alarmed screech of its own and scrabbles over the floor, claws skittering on the stone.

“The window! The window!” Dawn shrieks.

Marianne makes a grab at the creature, just barely missing it as it scrambles out the window. Half in and half out of the window herself, leaning over the ledge, she sees the creature clinging to the outer wall from a few feet away.

It makes a scolding kind of chattering sound at her. Marianne bares her teeth and snarls at it threateningly, leaning a little further out of the window to take a swipe at it. The creature scurries away, clinging to the grooves and the cracks in the stone, disappearing beyond the curve of the tower.

Marianne lets out a breath and collapses on the window seat.

“—what was that thing?” Dawn asks, standing near the window now, too, her eyes wide and one hand on her chest, over her heart, her wings trembling a bit.

Marianne rakes one hand through her hair and looks at Dawn.

“I have no idea,” Marianne says, arching an eyebrow, “but whatever it was, that was a hell of a way to start to your wedding day.”

The two of them look at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing at the same time.

“You! You tried to kill it with a pillow!” Dawn says. “A pillow!”

“I couldn’t find my sword!”

“A _pillow_!”

“Oh, and you were a whole lot of help!” Marianne says. “At least I _did_ attack it with the pillow; all you did was scream!”

“I,” says Dawn with an attempt at dignity, in between giggles, “alerted you to the presence of the intruder!”

“You probably alerted the entire palace, the way you were shrieking,” Marianne says, and, as if on cue, her bedroom doors slam open and five members of the palace guard burst in.

Dawn shrieks again and grabs for the blanket on Marianne’s bed to cover her nightgown.

“Your Majesty!”

“Everything is fine,” Marianne says, slouched on the window seat. She waves dismissively at them. “Everything’s fine; we won’t be needing you, thank you.”

The guards look baffled, but do retreat from the room, closing the doors behind themselves.

Marianne scrubs a hand over her face. Now that the excitement of her sudden awakening is fading, she’s starting to feel the effects of too much walking and too little sleep the night before. And of—

There’s a kind of sticky, twisting feeling in the center of her chest, deep inside.

Bog’s going to divorce her today.

Her heart twists again, a horrible, sick, hurting sensation. Marianne vividly imagines clawing it out of her chest and the image gives her some slight comfort.

“What’s this?” Dawn says.

Marianne looks at her, eyes focusing again.

“What’s what?” she asks.

Dawn, bent over, stretches her hand out to something on the floor that—

“This,” she says, picking it up. “That weird thing dropped it when you hit it with the pillow.”

She straightens up and holds it out for Marianne to see.

Marianne takes a sharp breath, on her feet without even meaning to stand.

“It’s nothing,” she says, snatching Bog’s bottle quickly from Dawn’s hand. “It’s nothing; it’s mine.”

Dawn gives her a look that indicates she thinks Marianne may have lost her mind. Marianne sympathizes with her sister. She has lost her mind.

“Oookay,” Dawn says, in a I-am-humoring-you tone.

Marianne forces a smile and curls her fingers around the bottle, hiding it from view.

* * *

The Imp scuttles along the outer wall of the palace, its tail lashing behind it and its ears flat to its head.

The flying one with the pretty purple wings was much more fierce than she appeared! The Imp had not at all liked being hit with the pillow! And it had _especially_ not liked the way the purple winged one had bared her teeth and growled at it—as though she meant to _eat_ the Imp!

A shiver ripples over the Imp’s back, making its fur stand up.

Having reached another window, now, the Imp pauses above it. Hanging upside down, the Imp peers cautiously inside. An empty hallway.

The Imp jumps down onto the ledge and then the floor, then shakes itself all over.

In spite of the alarming encounter with the purple winged one, the temptation to return to that room and try again for the little bottle of Love Potion is very great. The Imp could—

The Imp cocks its head, ears twitching.

That had been a very small bottle of potion. Much too small to be the main source of the delicious smell that twines all through the rooms and halls of this place! Has all of the rest of the potion been used up already?

The Imp balances on its hind legs and scents the air as it moves down the hall. It takes a turn, and then another, sniffing the air all the while.

No—no, the potion hasn’t been used up! The scent is a trail, a kind of ribbon through the air; it isn’t concentrated in splashes, the way it would be if it had been used. The only splash of the potion smell in the palace is the one the Imp had found outside the room of the purple winged one. It had thought that this must mean the rest of the potion was inside the room, but—

The Imp scurries down the corridor at a rapid pace, heading again in the direction of the bedroom it had been forced to exit so hastily.

When it reaches the room in question, the Imp hides cautiously in an alcove, behind a curtain, wary of another unexpected attack by the fierce purple winged one.

It hides itself just in time, too, because someone pushing a wheeled cart passes by the alcove just after, making the velvet curtain wave gently. The wheels rattle, and the Imp can smell food on the cart.

The Imp hears the bedroom’s doors open—the low murmur of voices inside the room—the sound of the doors shutting—and then the cart rattles by again, the smell of the food gone.

A moment longer of waiting, and then the Imp pokes its nose out from beneath the curtain. The rest of its body follows and it scampers up to the doors.

Yes, the potion was used here; the Imp can certainly smell it, a heady, sweet scent, that, even now that it has faded so much, makes the Imp sigh with pleasure.

The potion was used here, and a bit of it is inside the room there, but the rest of it—

The Imp scents the air, then stands up on its hind legs, ears and nose twitching with excitement.

—the rest of the Love Potion was taken away!

The Imp makes a quiet chattering noise of glee.

Taken away— _this_ way!

The Imp races off, following the trail of the scent.

* * *

They eat breakfast in Marianne’s room that morning, just her and Dawn. Marianne is on pins and needles the entire time, expecting Bog to appear at any moment—the two of them almost always have breakfast together.

(She dreads what his appearance will mean even as she can’t stop herself from longing to see him.)

When her bedroom door finally opens, Marianne tenses—but it’s her father who enters, not Bog.

“Good morning,” he says, smiling at both of them.

Dawn smiles back brightly and gets up from the table to embrace him. Marianne stretches her mouth into a smile too, and takes a sip of tea.

She has never been more grateful for Dawn’s ability to carry a conversation; it means she’s free to be silent as Dawn tells their father the story of their early morning encounter with the strange creature.

(Dawn doesn’t mention the little bottle—the one that Marianne still holds in her lap, beneath the table, and Marianne is grateful for that, as well.)

“—only awake for an hour, and you’ve already had an adventure!” her father says, and he and Dawn both laugh.

Marianne flinches, from the laughter, and from the memory—

( _what’s an adventure without a little danger_ , and Bog’s arms around her and the way she’d actually felt safe when he held her and—)

“—don’t you think, Marianne?” her father says, still laughing.

Marianne comes to herself with a jerk, realizing she’s missed several minutes of their conversation. She smiles and laughs and takes a sip of tea, and fortunately this seems to be an adequate answer to whatever question she’d been asked.

“Agh! I’m running late!” Dawn says, “I have to start getting ready!”

She gets to her feet and kisses her father’s cheek, and then Marianne’s, and then she puts her hands on Marianne’s shoulders and shakes them lightly.

“I’m getting married today!” she says.

Marianne rolls her eyes and shoos her off.

“You’ll be getting married in your nightgown if you don’t go and get dressed,” she tells Dawn, who grins at her brightly, and then practically skips out of the room, singing to herself.

Marianne shakes her head, the smile fading slowly from her lips.

“…Marianne.”

Marianne glances over at her father. He’s looking at her with an expression that makes her frown. He looks…uncomfortable? apologetic? And then he seems to make an effort to lighten his expression.

“Hard to believe Dawn really is getting married today,” he says.

“Yes,” Marianne agrees.

An uncomfortable kind of silence follows her agreement.

“She’s very happy about it,” Marianne offers, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” her father says.

Another silence follows.

This is why she’s been avoiding spending time alone with her father lately, Marianne knows. Conversations between the two of them, without Dawn, inevitably falter into these stilted staccato silences.

When was it, she wonders, that she stopped knowing how to talk to her father?

 _Probably somewhere around the time he sold you into a political marriage for the sake of peace_ , a nasty, bitter part of her mind says, and Marianne flinches at the truth in the words.

“Why didn’t you let me lead the army during the war?” she asks, voice a little too loud.

Her father blinks at her.

“…let you lead the army during the war?” he repeats, and from his tone, it is clear that he’s never before even considered such a possibility, and that, now that it has been called to his attention, he finds the suggestion ludicrous. “Oh, Marianne, of course I couldn’t make you lead the army during the war! Roland is an excellent commander—”

“Roland _lost_ ,” Marianne says. “I wouldn’t have lost.”

Her father’s expression turns deeply uncomfortable.

“Yes, well—there were—perhaps some ideas of his that—might have led to a different outcome of the war, but which I didn’t feel comfortable condoning—destruction—too much bloodshed on both sides—”

Marianne rises from the breakfast table abruptly, crosses to her window, fingers clenched around the bottle in her hand as she looks blindly out at the sunshine.

“And you didn’t think that _perhaps_ ,” she says, “these—destructive, frightening ideas of Roland’s might be indicative of who he is as a person? You didn’t think that _perhaps_ it might be wise to let someone else lead instead? I could have done it, father!”

She turns to look at her father; he’s risen to his feet now as well.

“I had to keep you safe, Marianne,” he says.

Marianne laughs, the sound joyless and edged with hysteria.

“Oh, and what a _wonderful_ job you’ve done of it,” she says, feeling cold all over in spite of the sunlight streaming through the window.

Her father flinches.

“Marianne—”

“Did you know I would be _safe_ , then,” she asks, “did you know I would be _safe_ when you _married me to our conqueror?_ ”

“Marianne, I’m sorry; it was the only—“

“I understand the necessity of it,” Marianne says. “What I do not understand is why you agreed to it without my consent. I was in the throne room when the Dowager Queen brought the message; did it not occur to you to let me answer for myself?”

“Don’t let’s fight,” her father says pleadingly, “Don’t let’s fight, Marianne, darling, please, not on Dawn’s wedding day.”

“Oh, yes, by all means, _don’t let’s fight,_ ” Marianne snarls. “ _Don’t let’s fight_ on Dawn’s wedding day, and _don’t let’s fight_ on mine, and don’t let’s ever _ever_ fight, let’s just lie down and surrender and let things just happen to us because it’s _easier that way._ ”

Her father lays his hand on her arm; Marianne shakes it off impatiently.

“Fighting is what I am good at, Father,” she says. “I just wish that you’d given me a chance to prove that.”

He blinks at her, clearly at a loss.

“We could have won the war,” she says, “if I had been the one to lead the army.”

She sees his disbelief, reads it in his eyes, his automatic dismissal of the words.

“Marianne, Roland and I did our—”

“You don't believe that, do you?” she says, with a bright, hard little laugh, “You don’t; I can tell that you don’t. But do you know who does believe that? Do you know who told me that?”

Her father opens his mouth, but Marianne does not give him a chance to speak.

“ _Bog_ is the one who told me that,” she says, “And since he did win the war, I’d say his opinion on the matter carries a bit more weight than either yours or Roland’s.”

“Oh, Marianne,” her father says, “I am sorry, my dear. I am sorry for the way things have—turned out for you, but—”

Marianne makes a noise of frustration, wings giving a quick flutter of repressed agitation.

“ _I do not regret my marriage,_ ” she says forcefully, the terrible truth of the words hurting her heart. “What I resent is that _I had no say in its happening._ Do you not understand, father? Do you not understand that?”

He doesn’t see. She can tell by his expression: apologetic and bewildered and utterly at sea, and Marianne feels the distance between herself and her father as a great gulf, suddenly, no matter that he’s standing next to her.

She closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again and looks at him once more.

He seems—so much smaller to her than he was before.

Marianne swallows down her disappointment in him as she swallows down her tears. She reaches out to pat his arm.

 _I forgive you for being less than I thought you_ , she thinks, and, for the first time, she feels no guilt at thinking this.

“That’s all right,” Marianne tells her father gently, a terrible compassion for him tightening her throat. “That’s all right, father. It turned out well enough in the end. You’re right—it’s Dawn’s wedding day. Don’t let’s fight about it any more.”

He looks relieved, and she reaches out to embrace him so that he will not see her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments; I really appreciate them so much!


	11. Chapter 11

There’s a spring in Roland’s step and a smile on his lips as he makes his way through the palace corridor from the barracks to his own room.

His little performance—opening the letter in front of the captains, exclaiming over the contents, and then reading the letter out loud to them—went off perfectly. His captains have all gone back to their troops, to prepare them to mobilize tonight at the ball.

Roland steps into his bedroom and closes the door behind himself with a flourish.

Everything is in place for his plan. All he has left to do is get himself ready to attend the royal wedding.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror and twirls his finger in his hair, making it fall just right over his brow.

Yes. Everything is going _perfectly_.

It is at this moment that something that seems to be made of teeth and fur and claws and _screeching_ launches itself through his window and lands on his head.

Roland gives a scream of his own, and frantically attempts to remove the creature from his head without getting his face scratched or his nose bitten off. The creature is wickedly fast; it seems to be everywhere at once—in his hair, on his face, climbing down his chest with its little pinprick claws that catch in Roland’s tunic and dig into his skin. In his panic, Roland doesn’t even notice that the creature has snatched the Love Potion from his pocket until the horrible little thing has given a triumphant scream and launched itself off of Roland’s head and onto his dressing table, knocking over bottles of cosmetics and hair creams.

It leaps from there to the top of his desk, its claws leaving scratches in the wood as it runs to the edge.

Roland lunges across the desk after it, grabbing for the creature as it jumps for the open window.

He only just barely manages to get his hands on it, and the move is not at all graceful, sending Roland tumbling to the floor with the shrieking creature. Roland hits his head on the edge of the desk, and his shoulder on the stone floor, and his ankle on the wall, but he keeps a tight hold on the creature.

Roland makes a noise of mingled pain and outrage and climbs to his feet, holding the creature warily at arms length. It still has the—miraculously unbroken—bottle of Love Potion clutched in its paws.

“Give me that!”

The creature does not want to let the bottle go, but Roland, at last, yanks it out of the creature’s paws by main force. It makes a chittering, angry sound at him. and reaches ineffectually for the bottle.

“What _are_ you?” Roland says, “Ow! Stop—biting—horrible little—weird rabbit thing—“

The weird rabbit thing bares its teeth at him and hisses; Roland jerks his head back automatically and the creature narrows its eyes and makes a sound like laughter. Roland glares at it.

“Oh, yeah, real funny, ain’t it?” Roland says in a dangerous tone. He gives the creature a warning shake. “ _Real funny._ ”

He looks furiously around his ruined room—bottles smashed, his chair overturned—

There is a crack in his mirror!

“Right,” Roland says decisively. He moves to his trunk in the corner, kicks the lid open. “Let’s see how funny this is to you.”

He shoves the creature into the trunk and slams the lid down quickly, before the thing can escape. It makes a furious sound; Roland hears it scrabbling at the inside of the trunk with its claws. Roland snaps the latch of the trunk lid down, trapping the creature inside.

“Now, isn’t that just hilarious?” Roland says, as the trunk rattles with the force of the creatures attempts to free itself.

Roland turns to look at himself in the mirror, assessing the damage.

No visible scratches on his face or neck, although there are red welts across his hands and arms, and, judging by the way his skin feels, also his chest and back. The armor, at least, will cover those.

His hair, however, is tangled and sticking up in all directions, and nearly all of his personal maintenance and cosmetic bottles have been either spilled or broken. Roland makes a face of disgust as he moves to the washbasin in the corner—there’s no telling what kind of nasty things he might catch from the little beast if he doesn’t wash the scratches and bites.

* * *

Even with two assistants, it takes the royal seamstress the better part of an hour to sew Marianne into her dress. Standing still while the violet petals are put into place and pinned and stitched with spidersilk is an incredibly tedious business, made worse by the way Marianne’s stomach is twisting itself into knots.

She remembers her wedding day, when they’d sewn the primrose dress around her, remembers the blazing fury that had burned in her heart, remembers the way her anger had seemed to burn away the fear and the dread.

Marianne wishes she could feel angry now.

Her pixie attendants flutter around her head as the seamstresses work. The pixies chatter brightly with each other in their high, sweet voices as they arrange her hair.

Marianne closes her eyes as they begin their work on her cosmetics.

“There you are, Your Majesty,” she hears the seamstress say at last. “All finished!”

Marianne opens her eyes, looks at her reflection in the mirror.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” one of the assistants whispers to the other, who gives a murmur of agreement.

Marianne rather thinks she looks like she’s about to be sick.

“Thank you,” she tells them. “The dress is…lovely. I’m sure you have other ladies to attend to; I won’t keep you.”

They curtsey gratefully and leave swiftly.

Rosa, Violet, and Verda are singing together now, a three-part harmony version of—

—the song Marianne sang with Bog, that day in the Great Hall, and if Marianne hears another note of it, she fears she really will be sick.

“Thank you,” she tells them. “I’ll finish everything else myself.”

They look surprised, but they leave, taking their music with them, leaving Marianne alone with the silence.

She meets the eyes of her reflection and swallows.

Bog’s potion is on her dressing table, hidden amongst the other bottles; she shoved it there quickly after her father left and her attendants came in. Marianne picks it up, now, cradles it in her hands. She closes her eyes, and, swiftly, as though she’s tearing a bandage from a wound, kisses the mark on the bottom of it. Then she slips the bottle into the hidden pocket of her dress—the pocket had been Marianne’s one suggestion for the design of her dress.

Marianne opens her eyes and looks at herself again.

She feels—so terribly vulnerable, and wishes, suddenly, for her sword at her side. But of course Dawn had been adamant that Marianne couldn’t wear her sword with her dress, and for once her little sister actually had practicality on her side; the petals of Marianne’s dress are far to delicate to support the weight of her sword belt, would end up bruised and torn if she wore her sword.

Besides, her sword, and Bog’s, have already been taken to the ballroom, placed there for the sword dance tonight; one of the chambermaids came to her room while the seamstresses were working on Marianne’s dress, and took her sword away.

There’s a little dagger in one of the drawers of her dressing table, though, hidden beneath her brushes and combs. Marianne opens the drawer and gets it out now. It’s a small, delicate thing in a sheath of soft black cloth, the blade light and slender enough and the cloth of the sheath soft enough that when she puts it in the pocket of her dress, along with Bog’s bottle, it doesn’t even pull the petals out of shape.

Marianne sets her lips and looks at herself again.

Her attendants did not get to her jewelry before she sent them away; she takes her jewel case from its drawer in the dressing table, sets it on the tabletop, and opens it.

She takes her crown from her jewel case first, holds it up for a moment, looking at it—the green enamel vines that decorate the gold, the smooth purple stone set in the center of it.

Marianne wore this for the first time at her wedding. Her father had tried to talk her out of wearing it, had said her husband-to-be would consider it a defiance.

That was why Marianne had worn it. She had certainly meant it as a defiance.

She’d been expecting Bog to demand it of her as soon as she met him at the altar, but he had just looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise and so unexpectedly blue.

She’d been expecting him to demand it of her during the wedding banquet as well, while she’d nettled and goaded him, and then she’d expected him to take it that night when he came to her rooms for the first time, but he hadn’t demanded it from her, hadn’t demanded anything of her, has never demanded anything of her, and it isn’t fair that he’s so much kinder and better than she ever expected.

Marianne takes a sharp breath. She needs to stop this. She’s going to start crying if she doesn’t, and her makeup will have to be re-done and her eyes will be red for Dawn’s wedding.

She rubs her thumb over the purple stone in her crown, feeling the smooth shape of it. Will this crown still be hers tomorrow?

Marianne realizes with a hard, painful pulse of her heart that she truly believes it _will_.

Bog has never taken anything from her. He will not take her queenship. Yesterday, when they flew through his forest together, and they spoke of her childhood plans to ally the Fairy Kingdom with the Dark Forest, he’d seemed truly pleased.

When he divorces her, she will remain queen. Marianne knows this.

She—

—trusts him.

_She trusts him._

It’s been so long since Marianne has trusted anyone that the realization knocks the breath from her lungs like a blow to the chest.

_She trusts him._

Marianne has to sit down.

* * *

Bog, standing in front of the doors to Marianne’s room, raises his hand to knock—and then lowers it. He closes his eyes briefly.

_You’re being ridiculous_ , he tells himself. _Putting off knocking isn’t going to do any good._

He’s been standing here for the better part of five minutes; it’s nearly time for the wedding to begin; if he puts this off for much longer, Marianne is going to come out of her room and find him here.

He opens his eyes, raises his hand again, forces himself not to crush the two scrolls of parchment in his other hand, and knocks.

“Come in,” Marianne’s voice says, from the other side of the doors.

Bog swallows, and opens the door, steps inside.

Marianne is seated at her dressing table; she turns her head to look at him as he closes the door behind himself.

She looks—

Beautiful. So beautiful.

And pale, beneath her makeup. And unhappy. She smiles at him, but he can see that it’s an effort for her. He frowns.

“Are you all right, Marianne?” he asks, moving towards her.

She smiles at him again, turning back to the mirror as he moves to stand behind her, meeting his eyes in the glass.

“Of course,” she says, “I’m just—a little tired.”

“The walking, yesterday,” Bog says, grimacing at her in the mirror. “I should ha’ noticed you were getting tired earlier.”

“I’m glad you brought me with you,” Marianne says, a little too quickly. “I’m glad you let me come.”

Bog frowns again.

“There’s—it’s not a matter of _letting_ ,” he says. “I—should ha’ thought to invite you sooner; of course you’d want t’ see the other half of our kingdom.”

Marianne takes a sharp breath, as if she’s touched a flame and is trying not to show pain. A little, half-arrested motion of her hands brings Bog’s attention down to them, where they rest atop the vanity table. She’s clutching—

It’s Bog’s turn to take a sharp breath as understanding strikes him. She’s clutching her crown; she’d been holding her crown and looking so pale when he walked into her room, and that little quick inhalation just now when he said _our kingdom_ —

She’s been afraid he’s going to take her queendom from her. He’s wondered why she’s never brought the subject of divorce up herself, and of course this explains it. Of course she feared what his reaction would be, if she should divorce him.

Bog puts the two scrolls down gently on the top of the dressing table and sees Marianne flinch, and hates himself for making someone as fierce as Marianne so frightened.

“May I?” he asks gently, covering her hands that rest on her crown lightly with his own.

She nods, her eyes not leaving his in the glass, and lets go of the crown, lets him take it from her. He lifts it up, and, his eyes still on hers in the mirror, places it carefully on her head.

“There,” he says, voice quiet, “now th’ crown’s where it belongs.”

Marianne’s eyes are wide, so wide, in the mirror.

“You wear it well, Marianne,” he says, hands still holding the crown lightly, his eyes still holding hers in the glass. “And I should never wish t’ see this crown elsewhere.”

Marianne takes another of those sharp breaths, her eyes closing, dark lashes sweeping down, and then she reaches up to cover his left hand with her own, tugging it down. She presses his palm quickly to her cheek and then she turns her head and kisses the palm of his hand.

Bog flinches.

_To have made her think she had to kiss his hand, to thank him for something that had never been his to give—_

“—Marianne,” he says, a catch in his voice, “I’ve brought—”

“I have something for you,” she says, letting go of his hand and ducking her head, bending down to open one of the drawers of her dressing table.

She pulls something out and shuts the drawer, straightens up, pushing back her chair as she turns towards him.

Bog takes an automatic step back, not wanting to crowd her, but Marianne takes a step forward, closing the distance between. them. She reaches up to put one hand on his shoulder, presses the thing in her other hand to his chest.

Marianne, her hands still on his shoulder and his chest, glances up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment that steals his breath.

And then she steps back and turns away.

Bog looks down at the thing she’s placed on his chest. It’s—

“Uh,” he says blankly.

It’s some kind of corsage; a piece of bark with dark purple leaves pinned around it, and a purple verbena flower in the center.

“It’s hideous,” Marianne says, still turned away, “Dawn offered to do it; I should have just let her; I’ve never been any good at—”

“No!” Bog says, and she turns then, looks at him. “No, I—I like it.”

Marianne looks at him for a moment, her eyes wide.

“…thank you,” he says.

They stand there for another moment, both of them very still.

“—ah,” Marianne says.

He sees her swallow, and then she turns away, towards the mirror above her dressing table again, although she does not look up and meet his eyes in the glass.

“There’s—there’s a necklace in the jewel case,” she says, fingertips resting lightly on the top of her dressing table. “Will you help me put it on?”

Bog swallows and steps forward again, stands behind her at the dressing table.

The curve of her neck is achingly beautiful; he wants, so very badly, to stroke his fingers down it, down her spine, down the seductive space between her furled wings. He can see the slightest hint of her skin, where her wings join her back, around the edges of the dress she’s wearing.

She smells like violets, and like herself.

Bog wants to bury his face in her hair, wrap her in his arms, and kiss her neck.

Would she let him? he wonders, with a sick, twisting feeling in his stomach. Would she think that it was the payment he demanded in return for allowing her to keep her crown?

She’d _kissed his hand_ , when he put the crown on his head, and the memory of the press of her lips against his skin makes him want to weep.

Bog looks down at the jewel case.

“Which necklace?” he asks, voice rougher than he’d like.

“The pearl one,” she says.

Bog reaches into the case, carefully sifts through the contents, delicate gold chains and rings and bangles.

“—I dinnae see any pearls,” he says.

Marianne turns, frowning. She reaches for the case and looks inside it. Bog takes a step back, giving her space.

She doesn’t find the necklace she’s looking for, either, just makes a frustrated sound and starts removing pieces of jewelry from the case, setting them atop the dressing table, the movements of her hands becoming increasingly swift and frantic as she does.

Marianne pauses for a moment, then turns to look at him.

“It’s not here,” she says. “I don’t—”

“Would you have put it somewhere else?” Bog asks.

“No,” Marianne says, but she opens the doors of her dressing table, yanks out the drawers, and begins digging through them. “No, I always put it in the case; it’s always in the case—”

She straightens up, turns to him, her eyes a little overbright.

“—that—thing,” she says, “the thing from this morning; it must have—”

“What thing?” Bog asks.

Marianne makes a wild gesture.

“There was this—this thing in my room this morning, like some kind of—weird little creature, I don’t know—Dawn woke me up screaming; it must have taken the necklace; it was trying to take—”

She stops abruptly, swallows, her face going paler. Marianne touches the side of her dress, a gesture that she doesn’t seem to be aware of making.

“—what?” Bog asks, worried now.

Marianne makes a slashing gesture with her hand, shakes her head.

“Nothing. Something. It doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll look for the necklace,” Bog says. “I’ll—”

A knock sounds on the other side of Marianne’s door.

“Marianne!” Dawn’s voice calls from the other side. “Are you ready yet?

Bog and Marianne look at each other for a moment longer. Marianne looks almost stricken.

“—it doesn’t matter,” she says, “Nothing—it doesn’t matter.

She smiles at him, a painful smile, shadows in her eyes.

“Yes, Dawn, we’re ready!” she calls to her sister, and moves towards the door. Bog follows.

* * *

Celeste places the Queen and King’s swords on the small table that stands next to the chairs for the orchestra, crossing the blades nicely and placing the little vase of purple flowers just in front of the crossed blades. She shakes her head. Swords! Who ever heard of such a thing at a wedding?

She’d certainly not want swords at her wedding, Celeste thinks, and then spends a few blissful moments picturing it—Roland looking so handsome, smiling at her, and her with a crown of flowers in her hair, laughing as he twirls her in their first dance together as husband and wife.

Celeste sighs happily.

Roland will have so much fun at their wedding; it will be sure to drive away any bad memories of the way the Queen had left him at the altar.

Celeste shakes her head and smooths her hands down her apron. Poor Roland; he’d told her all about the Queen, and the way she’d treated him so dreadfully. Celeste would never hurt him like that.

“Oh!” Celeste hears someone say. “Celeste, won’t you help me with this?”

Celeste turns and sees a very harried looking Angelique bustling over, her arms full of garlands.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Angelique says, shoving garlands into Celeste’s hands. “These were supposed to be put up first thing this morning, only Peter says he forgot—forgot! can you believe it?—and now he’s gone off to help with the cakes and I’m stuck with all of these—help me hang them, won’t you, Celeste?”

* * *

Roland looks at himself one last time in his cracked mirror. He gives his reflection a charming smile.

_Perfect_.

The creature in Roland’s trunk has finally given up trying to free itself, although it’s still making angry chittering noises. Roland ignores it entirely as he walks past it on his way out the door.

It’s time for a royal wedding. And this time, Roland intends to make sure that it goes absolutely perfect for him.

* * *

When, at last, the garlands are hung, Angelique gives a deep sigh of relief.

“There’s that done, then,” she says. “The wedding should be starting soon; let’s go out and see if we can find somewhere to watch. They say the Princess Dawn will be wearing a gown made out of blue violets! Oh, I’ll bet she looks divine!”

“I saw Queen Marianne’s gown,” Celeste says.

“Ooh, did you really?”

“It was all purple violets,” Celeste says, “they were sewing it onto her.”

Angelique sighs dreamily.

“Violets,” she says. “It must be so beautiful.”

“…yes,” says Celeste, frowning.

The gown certainly had been beautiful. The Queen had been beautiful, too, standing there as the gown was sewn around her. Absolutely terribly lovely, the deep purple of the violets setting off her skin and dark hair gorgeously.

Celeste touches her own hair self-consciously. Roland says that her hair is the most beautiful he’s ever seen—like spun gold, he says. Still, Celeste feels a twinge of jealousy at the Queen’s glorious dark hair, at her delicate violet dress—a twinge of jealousy and just a tiny pinprick of disquiet.

“—you go on ahead, Angelique,” she says suddenly, “I’ve just realized I—I forgot something—”

Celeste whirls around and races off down the corridor, ignoring Angelique’s protests, heading in the direction of Roland’s rooms.

* * *

Dawn chatters happily as they walk down the corridor. Marianne, her arm linked in her sister’s, does not hear a word of it. She’s terribly conscious of Bog, walking on her other side.

She must have been out of her mind. She’d _kissed his hand_ , which had been madness enough, but then when he’d actually thanked her for the hideous corsage she’d painstakingly made for him, she’d—

Marianne swallows.

Dawn kisses her cheek—oh, they've stopped walking—her father is here, taking Dawn's arm, and Dawn is letting go of Marianne.

Her father and Dawn walk down the corridor together; for a moment Marianne stands as still as a statue, looking blindly after them.

"Marianne?"

 

She turns, her heart in her throat. Bog is beside her, now, looking at her with a worried expression—oh—she’s meant to—

Marianne takes his arm. The sensation of touching him is—

_(her hand on the back of his, holding his palm to her cheek, and the feeling of his skin against hers and then she’d turned her head and kissed his palm; she hadn’t been able to stop herself, and he’d flinched and—)_

Marianne feels feverish, hot and cold at the same time, as though the entire world has gone distant and muted, as though Bog, beside her, is the only real thing in it.

She’d kissed his hand, and he’d _flinched_ , and she still hadn’t been able to stop herself from turning to show him her back, asking him to help her put on her necklace, the one with the chain that hangs between her wings, desperation making her shameless.

It’s fortunate that little creature stole her necklace; if Bog had put that necklace on her, had trailed his hand down her back to place the chain between her wings, Marianne is absolutely certain that she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from losing her head entirely and _begging_ him to keep touching her, to kiss her, just kiss her, just once.

And she cannot—she cannot do that; she needs to be sensible, needs to control herself.

_He doesn’t love you_ , she thinks at herself viciously. _He doesn’t love you._

Up ahead, Dawn laughs. Marianne closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again, and keeps walking, her hand still on Bog’s arm.

_He doesn’t love you._

* * *

The corridor is empty when Celeste reaches Roland’s rooms. She stops short just in front of his door, suddenly nervous.

She knows where Roland’s rooms are, of course; she’s slipped notes beneath the door for him from time to time. But she’s never actually been inside them; they always have their trysts in her room. Celeste has asked him to take her here, but…he’s always had some—perfectly good!—reason that they shouldn’t.

Is he—going to be annoyed with her, if she knocks on his door?

She hesitates for a long moment, shifting from one foot to the other—oh, it’s getting so late; what if he’s already gone? So silly, to be standing outside his door when he’s gone!

This last thought gives her the courage to knock on the door.

She waits a moment, but there’s no answer from inside.

“Roland?” she calls. “Are you there?”

Again, no answer.

Celeste turns—Angelique will have found a place by now; hopefully she’ll have saved room for Celeste—

—and then, from the other side of the door, she hears a faint whimper. Celeste turns back to the door.

“Roland?” she calls. “Roland, is that you?”

Again, the pained sound. Celeste’s eyes go wide. Oh no! He must be hurt!

She opens the door and steps inside, looks around—and then blinks.

The room is—

Well, it’s in a terrible state of disarray, for one thing, all broken bottles and overturned furniture; she can well believe that something happened here—was he attacked?

But the room is also _empty_.

“Hello?” she says, feeling a little nervous. “Is—anyone here?”

There is no answer. Gooseflesh creeps across the skin of Celeste’s arms. She can feel her wings wanting to snap out defensively.

Had she imagined the noise?

Celeste forces a laugh. Of course she must have imagined it! How silly, to be frightened of an empty room.

To prove to herself how very unafraid she is now that she’s come to her senses, she rights the desk chair that has been overturned, puts it back in it’s proper place.

The desk drawer has come slightly open; Celeste goes to close it, but something shiny inside it catches her eye.

Curious, she opens the drawer.

The shiny thing inside is a locket. Celeste pulls it out, looks at it. There’s an inscription on the locket— _with all my love_ , it reads.

A present for her? She opens the locket, wondering if he’s had his picture painted and put inside, and then recoils, dropping the locket back into the drawer in shock.

There’s a portrait inside, certainly, but it isn’t of Roland. Some dark haired girl is smiling from the picture inside the locket.

Has Roland been—oh, surely not—it must be an heirloom or something; maybe the girl in the locket is his mother. Celeste goes to pick it up again, to reassure herself that there has to be a family resemblance. And then she stops, hand hovering in midair over the locket.

The locket is just the start of the contents of the drawer. There are more pieces of jewelry, several locks of hair tied with ribbons, pressed flowers, handkerchiefs, letters—

_My darling Roland_ , Celeste reads from one of the letters, and that is most certainly not her handwriting. _My dearest love_ , she reads from another letter that has different handwriting.

_—love, your Mary—_

_—yours, Elizabeth—_

_—missing your kisses, Bridget—_

Celeste covers her mouth, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

How many—why are there—why would he keep all these if he loves only—

The trunk in the corner of the room rattles loudly. Celeste gives a little scream, her wings snapping out as she whirls to face the trunk.

It rattles again.

“Hello?” she says, her voice trembling.

The trunk stops rattling—and then whatever’s inside it makes a whining kind of sound, like something small and defenseless and in pain.

Shaking, Celeste moves cautiously towards the trunk.

“Hello?” she says again. “Are—are you hurt? Do you need help?”

The thing inside the trunk makes a pathetic whimpering noise.

Celeste reaches out to undo the latch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all very much for the comments! Getting them makes me so happy!


	12. Chapter 12

“Sire! Sire!”

“Your Majesty!”

Beside Marianne, Bog groans under his breath, but he stops walking and drops her arm so that he can turn in the direction of the frantically calling voices. Marianne stops, too, and turns with him.

Stuff and Thang race towards them, a pile of fabric bunched up in Thang’s arms.

“What is it?” Bog says.

“You forgot your robes, Sire!” Thang says happily, cheerfulness unaffected by the way Bog is already glaring at them.

Bog growls under his breath and takes the piece of cloth from Thang.

“Ask him!” Stuff hisses to Thang. “He’ll appreciate it!”

“You ask him!” Thang whispers back.

“He likes you!”

“Really?” Thang says, sounding inordinately pleased.

Marianne looks sidelong at Bog, who is holding up the robes with an expression of extreme distaste.

“Need any help?” Thang asks Bog.

“No,” Bog growls. “Go away.”

Stuff and Thang scamper off again.

“—Marianne?” Dawn calls.

Marianne glances over her shoulder at her sister and her father, waiting a little way down the corridor.

“You go on ahead,” Marianne calls. “We’ll only be a moment.”

“Don’t take too long!” Dawn says, and then she and their father begin to walk again, turning a bend in the corridor and disappearing from view.

Marianne turns back to Bog. He’s still looking at the robe as though he’s never before seen such a thing, and deeply regrets that he’s seeing it now. Her heart gives a painful and perfectly ridiculous little twist of affection at his expression.

“…do you need any help?” she asks.

“No,” Bog says, and then looks at her and sighs, and makes a face. “—yes, most likely.”

Marianne takes the robe from him and he leans his staff against the corridor wall. He takes the ugly little corsage that she made him off of his chest and holds it delicately, as though it’s something worth being careful with.

(she feels tears wanting to rise in her eyes at that and savagely represses them)

The robe in her hands is made of five panels of muted violet damask. The bottom edge of each panel is—well, Marianne thinks the rents and tears and tattered edges are artistic, but then, she’s not really well-versed in goblin fashion. The panels hang down from a kind of leather collar, clearly designed to rest on his shoulders. Bog leans down and ducks his head—oh, he wants her to—

Marianne lifts the collar over his head, settles it into place. He’s leaning down for her and she still has to stand on tiptoe to do it.

Bog straightens up—goodness, but he’s tall; it always surprises her, somehow, how very tall he is—and the collar makes his shoulders look even wider.

Marianne swallows.

—her hand is still on his collar, her fingers hooked beneath the leather at the base of his throat. He’s looking down at her, eyes very blue and much closer than she really feels able to handle. She lets go of him quickly, feeling herself flush as she takes a step back from him.

“Ah—here—” she says, covering her reaction as best she can by ducking her head and moving around Bog, sorting the panels of the robe out.

Two panels drape in front of his shoulders, two more behind his shoulders, and then one panel—

Marianne swallows again.

One panel is designed to hang between his wings. She drapes that one into place quickly, careful not to touch him.

There is decorative stitching down the center of that panel, a line of green embroidery like twisting vines, resting between his wings, and Marianne wants, very, very badly, to trace the edges of each vine with her fingertips, wants—

“Thank you,” Bog says, voice quiet. Marianne still starts at the sound of it.

“It’s—it’s no trouble,” she manages to say, grateful that she’s standing behind him, still, that he can’t see her face.

The panels lace together, a short line of laces beneath each arm, and then beneath each wing.

“—could you just—?” Marianne says, touching his left elbow as lightly and quickly as she can.

“Oh—” Bog pulls his arm up out of her way as she bends down to lace the panels beneath his arm together.

(she is very resolutely not looking at him, so she doesn’t see the way he swallows, looking down at her, the way he’s only able to tear his gaze away from her with a visible effort)

Marianne glances up at him. He’s looking over at the wall, his face turned away from her.

She moves around him to the other side, and he lifts his arm for her again. Marianne quickly laces the panels together, concentrating on not letting her hands shake.

“I hate these things,” Bog mutters.

She glances up at him, and he is looking at her this time, which is—

(he could let his hand settle on her back; she imagines the weight of it there, resting between her wings. his hands are so big that his thumb and last finger would overlap her wings themselves, and the phantom sensation of that nearly makes her shiver and—)

—and Bog definitely just said something, didn’t he? After a moment of frantic mental scrambling, Marianne manages to remember what it was.

“The robes?” she asks, pulling the laces tight and tying them together, hoping that if she does it quickly enough he won’t notice the way her hands definitely are shaking, now.

Bog makes a noise of affirmation as she moves behind him again.

Marianne takes a very shaky breath. The next laces are—

“Um,” she says. “Could you, ah—could you unfurl your wings for me? I need to—um—the laces…”

“—ah, right; yes—” Bog says, sounding a little uncomfortable, too.

He unfurls his wings for her, though, fanning them out slowly, the iridescence of them catching the light, making Marianne catch her breath. Heat curls in the pit of her stomach at the apparent sensuality of the gesture, never mind that it’s entirely unintentional and definitely not intended as flirtation, not intended to draw her eyes to the luster of his wings, not intended as an invitation to run her palm over the gorgeous space between them, to feel the ridges of his spine beneath the cloth of the robes.

Marianne gulps and reaches carefully beneath one of his wings to do up the laces.

“Why—why do you hate the robes?” she asks, her voice a little higher than she would like.

He’s silent for a moment longer than she expects. She glances up and sees that he’s looking at her over his shoulder, his face in profile. Her fingers fumble as she tries to tie the laces.

“There are some things tha’ all the brocade in the world cannae fix,” he says.

Marianne tips her head, frowning.

“It’s—I mean,” she says, “it’s really not meant to—to fix anything. It’s supposed, to, you know, complement—”

“—the hideousness?” Bog says dryly. “I think perhaps the word you’re lookin’ for here is _contrast_.”

Marianne’s hands go still on the last of the laces.

He thinks—?

“…you are really not hideous,” she says, voice low.

He turns his head away and makes a sound clearly indicative of disbelief.

“Have you finished with it?” he asks.

“Ah—” Marianne knots the last lace quickly. “Yes, that’s—all done.”

She steps back and Bog furls his wings once more, reaching for his staff, taking it up from its place leaning against the wall. Marianne closes her eyes briefly and takes a steadying breath, the steels herself and moves around so that she’s beside him again.

“Thank you,” he says abruptly, looking at her with an expression. He’s trying to smile, she thinks, but his mouth twists as if he’s tasted something bitter. “I do not mean to be ungrateful.”

He holds her corsage out to her.

“You don’t need to be grateful,” Marianne says, trying to make her voice light, not really succeeding. She takes the corsage out of his hand. “I mean, ‘you’re not hideous’ isn’t much of a compliment, as far as compliments go.”

The resin on the back of the corsage was enough to hold it to his carapace, but not to the cloth of his robes. Marianne improvises, removing one of the pins that hold the leaves, rearranging the remaining pins so that the leaves stay in place, using the pin she removed to secure the bark to his robes.

Bog gives a snort of amusement.

“I meant for the help,” he says. “Not for the compliment about the supposed _complementing_ of the robes.”

Marianne, sliding the pin into place, smiles—and then she makes the mistake of glancing up at him.

He’s looking down at her, half smiling, and he is—he is really very close, her hands still on his chest from pinning the corsage, his head tilted down to look at her.

Could she reach his lips to kiss him, if she stood on tiptoe? Marianne wonders.

He’d probably have to lean down a little more to meet her. Or catch her around the waist and pick her up; she knows he could do it, especially if she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He could pick her up and spin the two of them around and press her back against the wall and—

Marianne feels a hysterical laugh rising in her throat, threatening to bubble out.

She’s standing here vividly fantasizing about Bog pinning her against the wall and having her right here in the corridor where anybody could see, and he thinks that he’s hideous?

Marianne can feel how hard her heart is beating, feels in in her chest and in all of her pulse points and in the low throb of desire in the pit of her stomach.

She’s going to kiss him, Marianne realizes, and it is very much a realization and not a decision because she knows all of the reasons why this is a terrible thing to do but she’s not going to be able to stop herself and—

“Your sister will be waitin’.”

“—wh-what?” Marianne says, reeling back from him as though a tether holding her to him has just snapped. 

For a moment, his words don’t even make sense because—

(she almost kissed him she almost kissed him she almost kissed him)

A hot flush goes through all of her body, followed so quickly by a wave of horrified shame that it makes her head spin.

“Your sister,” Bog says again, and he’s not looking at her now; he’s looking down the corridor. “They’ll be wantin’ to start the ceremony soon.”

“Oh,” Marianne says. Her lips feel oddly numb. “Oh—yes. Of course.”

Bog holds out his arm for her.

“Yes, of course,” she says again, and her voice sounds tinny and far off to her own ears.

(she feels almost feverish, hot and cold at the same time, her thoughts blurring together, the world around her over-bright and somehow unreal)

She takes Bog’s arm.

* * *

Bella is really beginning to regret coming to Princess Dawn’s wedding.

The entire royal wedding thing just brings back—really awful memories, humiliation and guilt and shame and Roland is standing with the army commanders, close enough that she can see the smile on his handsome, awful face, and that just really makes the humiliation and the shame even worse.

It isn’t fair that he apparently feels entirely blameless and unconcerned at being at another royal wedding while Bella is over here writhing and wishing she was back home alone.

The Queen, standing with the King in front of the crowd, slightly to the left of the altar for the betrothed couple, looks terribly pale in her violet gown, her dark eyes wide and tragic in her face—or perhaps that’s just Bella’s guilty imagination again.

The girl standing beside Bella, the one with blonde hair and freckles, doesn’t seem to be enjoying the ceremony any more than Bella or the Queen. She looks faintly dazed, almost swaying on her feet. The girl’s friend, the one with dark hair and skin, keeps darting worried looks at her.

“Celeste?” the friend whispers, under cover of the music. “Celeste are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” the girl named Celeste says, who is clearly lying. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

“Perhaps it’s the sun,” Bella says to the girl’s friend, who looks more worried than ever. “It is rather hot. Here—”

The friend gives Bella a look of thanks as Bella begins to fan the girl named Celeste with the fan she brought from home.

“I’m fine,” Celeste whispers again, but she closes her eyes, pale beneath her freckles.

“Hush, now,” the friend tells her, still looking worried, arranging the two of them so that Celeste is leaning on her now.

The friend glances over at Bella, catching her looking at them. Bella, not knowing what else to do, gives her a comforting smile. The friend gives her a tight, concerned smile in return.

“It’ll be over soon enough,” Bella says, surprising herself by speaking. It’s been ages since she talked to anyone new on purpose.

“I suppose so,” the friend says, but she doesn’t look especially reassured.

“There’ll be drinks inside,” Bella says, “and we can get her something to eat—”

She doesn’t quite mean to offer her help; she’s been intending to slip away as soon as the actual ceremony was over, and avoid the banquet and the ball entirely.

But sympathy makes the offer slip out anyway, and the look of sheer relief on the face of the girl’s worried friend makes it more than worth it.

“Thank you,” the worried girl says quietly.

“Bella,” Bella whispers. “My name’s Bella.”

“Angelique,” the other girl says. “And this is Celeste.”

The girl with the blonde hair opens her eyes and gives Bella a weak attempt at a smile. Bella continues to fan her.

“Really, thank you again—” Angelique begins.

“It’s no trouble,” Bella says. “Don’t worry. We’ll just wait for the ceremony to get over, and then we’ll all go straight inside. She’ll feel much better once she sits down and gets something cool to drink.”

* * *

Dawn and Sunny’s wedding ceremony is beautiful; Marianne recalls almost none of it, later.

She remembers it like a fever dream: vivid, fragmented moments blurred together—the first three notes of the third song and her father’s beaming smile—a glance at Bog out of the corner of her eyes during a pause in the music, the sharp edge of his cheekbone and the curling leaves of the corsage she’d made him—a swell of music and Sunny’s expression changing from nervous happiness to sheer, joyful adoration as he sees Dawn—seeing that expression reflected in Dawn’s face and feeling a sudden fierce rush of love for her sister like a spike through her heart and loving Dawn and loving her father and loving Sunny and loving Bog and wanting to be happy and wanting to die and always, always, all over everything, the sunlight and the smell of violets and her despair.

Dawn bends and kisses Sunny and everyone cheers. Marianne smiles, and if there are tears in her eyes, now, well, no one will think less of her for crying at her sister’s wedding.

A rumble of thunder in the distance makes Dawn and Sunny break their kiss as they look up, startled. Everyone laughs as the musicians begin again to play and the wedding party leads the way from the field before the palace and up the palace steps. The sun slips behind a cloud as they reach the doors of the palace, and Marianne, her hand on Bog’s arm again, looks up and shivers.

Everyone knows how sudden summer rains come on, and there is more laughter as the first of the rain begins to fall and the crowd dashes up the palace steps and into the entrance hall, and from thence to the dining hall.

* * *

Bog reflects with grim self-recrimination that he should not have wasted so much time outside of Marianne’s bedroom door this morning, should have made sure he had time enough to actually show her the divorce contracts and put her mind at ease.

For she is not easy in her mind; he can tell. Marianne looks almost feverish all through the wedding ceremony and she eats little during the banquet. She drinks only water and eats only berries and fruit, pushing aside everything else, even the acorn and honey cakes that he knows to be her favorite.

He wants, so very badly, to tell her that it’s all right, that everything will be all right, but there are people all around them, talking and laughing, and so there is little he can do but place his goblet of water at her elbow when she finishes her own and turn his plate so that the fruit on it is near to her, a silent offer. Bog is careful not to look at her while he does this; Marianne hates to show weakness in public, would not appreciate his drawing attention to her lack of appetite.

She understands the invitation, at least, for she does take several pieces of fruit from his plate, and eats them, also without looking at him.

Dawn, on Marianne’s other side, has her attention too taken up by all the congratulations and teasing and toasts that the other diners at the high table direct at her, and Bog’s mother, on his other side, is mercifully too absorbed in flirting outrageously with every fairy lord and dignitary seated on her side of the high table to notice how little Marianne is eating.

During the final course, Bog is startled to feel a pressure on his hand, where it lies atop the table. He glances down and sees, to his surprise, that Marianne has taken it, her fingers curled around his hand. Bog glances up at her; she’s still not looking at him, is looking out over the rest of the hall, but she must notice him looking at her, because she squeezes his hand.

He shifts his hand slightly, so that his fingers curl beneath hers, and he sees her close her eyes briefly.

(if she loved him, Bog would lift her hand to his lips and kiss her knuckles, and he would not give a damn who was watching)

He pats the back of her hand with his free hand instead.

Marianne must find his inept attempts at comfort at least a little reassuring, for she keeps her hand in his until the meal is over and they rise from the table to lead the way to the great hall.

“You know,” Bog says to Marianne as the two of them take up their places for the first dance, “it’s possible that I should have been practicin’ this instead of showin’ you the sword dance.”

He gives her a slightly exaggerated grimace, and she must be feeling at least a little better, because she makes a sound that’s nearly a laugh.

“Is this your way of warning me that you’re going to step on my toes?” she asks.

“It’s a definite possibility,” Bog says, face and voice melodramatically grim. “This is your last chance t’ save yourself.”

A smile trembles around the edges of Marianne’s lips as she lifts her hands and presses them to his, the opening pose of the dance.

“I’ll take my chances,” she says.

The music begins.

* * *

Marianne had felt during the wedding ceremony as if she was burning up with fever, but now she just feels as if she’s burning up, as if there will be nothing left of her after this night but ashes.

She dances the first few figures with Bog, as she and Dawn agreed.

After the first few figures, she should, of course, according to every rule of etiquette, part from Bog and make a circuit around the room, giving the guests the opportunity to request dances with her, giving Bog the opportunity to ask dances of the other ladies.

Marianne catches at his hand instead as he turns away from her.

“Dance with me again,” she says, more a plea than a command.

He looks taken aback, and frowns, and for a moment she thinks that he’ll refuse, but as the music strikes up, he steps forward into the dance with her.

(his hands on her waist, lifting her up so effortlessly and spinning her into the steps)

They dance the next dance together as well, and then the next, and the next after that, and Marianne knows that people are staring, that there will be talk about this tomorrow, especially after their divorce is announced, but she cannot bring herself to care.

Tomorrow, Marianne will be nothing but ashes but tonight she is lit up and burning and incandescent, and she will have this.

The girl that Bog loves is no doubt here tonight, and perhaps Marianne should give in gracefully and step aside and let him dance with her instead, but Marianne has never given in gracefully in her life and she will not start now. The other girl will have all of his days and his nights after this. Marianne will have tonight.

Perhaps Bog understands something of her feelings—she’d kissed his hand in her bedroom, pressed his palm to her cheek; he has to understand something of her feelings—because he does not protest, any of the times she catches his wrist at the end of the dance and begs him to stay, and after a few more dances, he stops stepping away from her at all, simply keeps holding her as the music changes, each of their dances blending into the next.

* * *

Bog looks down at Marianne worriedly as they dance. Why in the world does she want to keep dancing with him? Doesn’t she want to make a circuit of the room and give the man she’s in love with a chance to dance with her?

Unless—have she and her love quarreled? Perhaps her current misery isn’t entirely Bog’s fault. Or is she just trying to avoid someone?

Oh, surely—surely Roland wouldn’t dare ask her to dance—

No, Bog decides grimly, Roland definitely would dare ask her to dance; that trumped up little popinjay doesn’t have any sense of decency or shame.

Well, regardless of why Marianne wants him to keep dancing with her, Bog is more than willing to do so. Dancing with Marianne is…

Wonderful and terrible at the same time—she’s so close, moving with him and touching him, letting him touch her, their hands pressing together and joining, his arm wrapping around her waist and her arm around his shoulders as the two of them spin around each other.

People are staring at the two of them, Bog notes distantly, and then decides that he doesn’t actually care. Let them stare. Let them all gossip tomorrow, after the divorce is announced, let them call him grasping and possessive, let them call him a monster unwilling to release his captive, let them say that he did not want to give her up.

He doesn’t want to give her up. And she seems content, just for now, to stay with him, and so he does not have to give her up just yet.

They dance until the music falls silent. It takes Bog several long moments to notice that the musicians are not beginning another song. Marianne is looking up at him with wide dark eyes and parted lips, her face tilted up as if for a kiss and it’s hard to think of anything but her.

At last, though, he does notice the silence, and he blinks and shifts back slightly from Marianne—only slightly; she doesn’t take her hand from his shoulder so he doesn’t take his hand from her waist, doesn’t let go of her other hand—and looks around.

The fairy orchestra is standing and moving aside; goblins with their own instruments are taking their place, and the dance floor is clearing, the other couples moving to the edges of the floor.

A touch at his elbow makes him turn his head; Marianne turns hers as well. Stuff and Thang are there, holding up a tray with two swords on it; his own and Marianne’s.

Bog looks back at Marianne, the lights of the ballroom dancing in her eyes like fireflies across dark water. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks; exertion, or possibly excitement, and he wants to kiss her so badly that he can almost taste it.

Violets, he thinks disconnectedly, she’d taste like violets, and her lips would be crushed like petals by the harshness of him.

“Remember what you promised, now, tough girl,” he says, voice rough to his own ears. “Try not to kill me.”

Marianne must not notice the way he’s affected by her, though, because she doesn’t step away from him, doesn’t look away from him as he reaches out, without looking away from her, and takes up his sword.

“I remember,” she says, her hand sliding from his shoulder at last. “And I won’t kill you.”

Bog lets go of her waist, lets her hand slip out of his grasp. She smiles at him, sharper than the edge of a blade, and reaches for her own sword.

“Seriously maim you at most,” Marianne says, smiling up at him, wicked and dangerous and so very herself that it takes his breath away.

She picks up her own sword, raises it, taking up the dance’s opening stance.

“GO!” someone in the crowd shouts at the top of their lungs.

And chaos erupts in the ballroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all very, very much for the comments! Reading them makes me so happy!


	13. Chapter 13

It takes Bog far too long to figure out what’s happening.

He sees weapons being drawn, sees people shouting and panicking, hears screaming, but he can’t see who’s attacking them; can’t see any enemies.

It’s not until the members of the fairy royal guard begin to drive the goblins towards the center of the room, out onto the empty dance floor, that he realizes what’s actually happening.

And by then, it’s too late.

Hardly any of the goblin guests are armed, and they are far outnumbered by the armed fairies who surround them and herd them into a small, terrified knot.

Bog sees Stuff and Thang in the group of goblins; they must have moved from their place by his elbow while he was standing here frozen. Both of them are still fighting, along with a good number of the others.

He feels as if as if he’s stuck underwater, sounds strangely muted, the sight of his goblins being attacked by the guard rippling and somehow unreal, all of his reactions slow, too slow.

Bog turns (too slow) and raises his sword (too slow) and then he sees—

—his mother. One of the fairy guards has her, has pulled her to the front of the group, her arms pinned at her sides and his sword at her throat and the guard looks at Bog, meets his eyes, and Bog—

—freezes.

The rest of the goblins have seen his mother, too, because they stop fighting, go still.

Behind him, Bog hears the sound of someone clapping, loudly and slowly. The noise of the unarmed fairy guests, who have drawn back to the edges of the room, drops to a low hum and murmur of agitated voices.

Bog turns.

Sir Roland walks forward, out of the crowd and onto the dance floor, clapping. He comes to a halt, and stops clapping, a slow smile spreading across his face. He’s a few paces away from Bog, out of reach of Bog’s sword, but he isn’t looking at Bog, is ignoring Bog entirely, as though Bog is not even here.

Roland is looking at—

— _smiling_ at—

Bog turns to look at Marianne, who is standing at his side, her sword still in hand.

She’s looking at Roland.

But she turns her head and meets Bog’s gaze, her dark eyes wide and her face pale, and he remembers—

Marianne sitting at her dressing table looking tense and anxious Marianne looking at her crown Marianne asking him to keep dancing with her asking him to stay with her keeping him separated from the rest of his people and the attack had started when Marianne raised her sword and she and her sister had been so adamant that he bring his mother to this wedding and now there is a fairy blade held to his mother’s throat, and when did he start thinking of fairies as people to trust and—

_I won’t kill you. Seriously maim you at most._

She played him, Bog realizes, understanding settling, cold and heavy, on his heart.

 _What were you expecting?_ he thinks bitterly. _You fought a war against her family, stole her kingdom, made her marry you; did you expect her to kiss your hand and thank you for it?_

_Did you expect her to **love** you, when you forced her to marry you?_

Bog looks into Marianne’s eyes, holds her gaze.

“We surrender,” he says to her, and drops his sword.

And Marianne’s expression—

—shifts into something like _fury_.

“No, we do _not_ ,” she snarls, and then she turns away from him, and she raises her sword, and she steps in front of him, as if she’s—

—as if she’s—

Protecting him.

And Bog doesn’t—he doesn’t—

“What the hell are you doing, Roland?” Marianne says.

* * *

Marianne looks at Roland from over her upraised blade. He gives her a wide-eyed, guileless look.

(damn him. damn him and damn her, too; she should have known right away what was happening; should have realized; should have reacted faster. but she hadn’t been thinking of anything but Bog and so it had taken her an unforgivably long amount of time to comprehend what was—)

“Why, I’m carryin’ out your orders, of course, Buttercup,” Roland says.

“I never ordered this!” Marianne says.

Roland blinks at her, his face a perfect picture of honest confusion.

“We’ve been talkin’ about this since the day after your wedding, Marianne,” he says. “Don’t you remember? I told you that you could count on me when the time came. And we spoke about it again just a few weeks ago; I told you I had the army all ready to move whenever you wanted. You can’t have forgotten all that.”

“I told you—” Marianne cuts herself off just in time.

She can’t say _I told you no_ , because that will reveal that they did talk about a coup, that she knew of a plot to overthrow Bog and that she didn’t say anything, that she let Roland talk to her of treason and she kept it a secret.

(Marianne can tell by the gleam in Roland’s eyes that he knows this, has planned for it.)

“Marianne,” he says, beginning to move around the dance floor in a slow, wide circle, his voice upraised as he plays effortlessly for the crowd, “darlin’.”

Marianne turns warily with him, facing him, her sword still up, keeping Bog behind her all the time. Roland watches her, eyes still baffled.

“You’re the one who sent me the orders,” he says.

Roland reaches into the pouch at his hip, takes out a piece of folded paper and holds it up just as he comes to a halt, perfectly naturally, beside Marianne’s father.

“In writing,” Roland says.

“I did not!” Marianne says, voice ringing out.

Roland frowns, looking bewildered.

“But this is your handwriting,” he says. “See?”

He holds the note out to Marianne’s father, who takes it.

“Tonight,” her father says, reading from the letter. “At the ball. I’ll give the signal. Marianne.”

He looks up at Marianne, and now he looks confused—no; no—

“I didn’t write that!” Marianne says.

“And you gave the signal,” Roland says. “You raised your sword. Just like we talked about, Marianne.”

“Marianne?” her father says.

“I didn’t write that letter!” Marianne cries. “This is insane!”

She looks wildly around the room, at her courtiers, at the goblins, at the members of her royal guard—and they are hers; they’re hers to command; she is their queen.

“I did not write that letter,” she says again, forcing her voice to a tone of steely authority.

She fixes her eyes on the member of the royal guard that has his sword to Griselda’s throat.

“And as your _queen_ ,” Marianne continues, “I command you to release the Dowager Queen and every one of _my subjects_ that you have unlawfully attacked and are now holding prisoner. I believe you to have been following what you were led to believe were my orders, and so if you obey me _immediately_ , the punishment for Sir Roland’s treasonous actions will be faced by him alone.”

The guard’s eyes flicker from her face over to Roland, and then back to Marianne. He gulps visibly, and begins to begins to lower—

“The letter came with the royal seal,” Roland says. “You can still see it there, on the edge of the paper, Your Majesty.”

Marianne whips her head around to look at him, but realizes that Roland’s your majesty was directed not at her—

—but at her father. Who is looking at a seal on the edge of the paper, now.

He looks up at Marianne.

“It—it is the royal seal, Marianne,” her father says.

“I don’t care what it looks like!” Marianne says. “I did not write that letter!”

She looks at her father, but she can see that he doesn’t believe her. Marianne catches sight of Dawn and Sunny’s anxious faces as she turns around to Bog.

He’s looking at her, his sword still on the ground.

“I didn’t write it,” she whispers to him, taking half a step towards him. “Bog, I swear to you, I didn’t do this. Please—”

“Marianne,” Roland says, sounding thoroughly confused and a little worried, now, “come on, beautiful’. Step away from that beast and come over here with me.”

Marianne rounds on him, furious.

 _“Don’t you call him that!”_ she snarls. “Don’t you dare! He is worth a thousand of you, Roland. I can’t believe I ever thought I was in love with _you_.”

Roland presses his hand to his chest, takes half a step back from her, his eyes wounded now.

“But we _are_ in love, Marianne,” he says, voice trembling artistically. “Buttercup, how can you say that? I told you I forgave you, darlin’, and I do, I promise; you didn’t need to send me those things to convince me—”

“What?” Marianne says, “What things? I haven’t sent you—”

Roland’s hand dips down into his pouch again, comes up with a lock of dark hair, tied with a ribbon.

“That’s not mine—”

Roland hands the lock of hair to Marianne’s father, reaches into the pouch once more, and pulls out—

Her necklace. The one she couldn’t find when she was getting ready for the wedding.

The necklace dangles from Roland’s fingers, the pearls gleaming softly in the light of the ballroom.

Marianne takes a sharp breath. The necklace is clearly hers. It’s one of a kind. Her favorite. Everyone will recognize it.

She turns to Bog, who is still looking at her.

“I didn’t give him that,” she says. “You know I didn’t give him that; we looked for it together—”

“Why on earth are you so worried about what he thinks?” Roland says. “You hate him, Marianne; you told me so. It just broke my heart, when you cried to me that day, when you told me how you wanted to die every time he touched you—”

Marianne laughs. She can’t help it.

“You’re a _liar_ , Roland,” she says. She turns again to Bog. “You believe me, now; don’t you? You believe me, now.”

“I believed you before, Marianne,” Bog says.

Marianne swallows, her throat suddenly tight. She holds out her free hand to him, and he walks forward and takes it, moving to stand beside her, lacing their fingers together. He gives her a crooked smile.

“If you had been leadin’ this attack,” he says, “you would have waited until _after_ the sword dance.”

Marianne laughs again, a startled laugh with tears at the edges of it.

“Damn right, I would have,” she says, and, without thinking, lifts their joined hands up and presses a quick kiss to the back of his.

_“What have you done to her, you monster?”_

Marianne jerks around at the sound of Roland’s outraged cry. What is he—

Roland has his eyes fixed on Bog, now, and there’s a look of horror on his handsome face as he points to the two of them.

“You’ve done something to her; I know you have!” he says. “My Marianne would never—”

“I am not yours,” Marianne snarls.

“You’ve used a love potion on her!”

A gasp ripples through the crowd at Roland’s accusation.

“…what?” Bog says, voice blank.

“He must have!” Roland turns to appeal to the crowd. “Marianne would never act like this, would she? Would Marianne be singin’ duets with the goblin that conquered her kingdom? Would Marianne be holdin’ his hand and eatin’ off his plate and kissing something so disgusting? Would she dance with him all night like she forgot anyone else was in the room? You all know Marianne! She’s been actin’ strange for days, hasn’t she?”

Beside Roland, Marianne’s father shifts uneasily; it’s a tiny movement, but Roland catches it, and turns to him.

“Hasn’t she?” Roland repeats.

Her father licks his lips, his eyes darting between Marianne and Roland, and Marianne can see it, can see what he’s thinking, that he’s remembering their argument after breakfast, remembering how she said she doesn’t regret her marriage—

“—well—” her father says hesitatingly.

“And he’s done it before,” Roland says, looking at Bog, and Marianne can see the spite in his eyes, almost completely hidden by his expression of righteous fury. “He’s used a love potion before. Isn’t that right, Lady Plum?” he adds, turning to her.

“—ah—” says the the Sugar Plum Fairy, with a nervous little twittering laugh. “That is to say, I—I mean— _yes_ , but—”

Roland looks again at Marianne, and this time the expression she sees hiding in his eyes is triumph.

“I’ll bet he never told you that, did he,” Roland says.

Beside Marianne, Bog has gone completely still, as if he’s made of stone. Marianne tightens her fingers around his.

“He did, actually,” she says to Roland.

Roland blinks, looking honestly taken aback for a moment, but he covers the moment quickly, turns to the crowd.

“And would the Marianne we all know forgive somethin’ like that?” he says. “He has to have used the potion on her! How else do you explain it?”

“This entire conversation is ridiculous,” Marianne says, voice ringing out with as much authority as she can put behind it. “These unfounded accusations of Sir Roland’s are merely meant to distract from his own treasonous—”

“Let me prove it, Your Majesty,” Roland says to Marianne’s father. “Let me search her room. If he used the potion on her, I’ll bet he did it there.”

“I—” her father says, his face somewhere in between white and a queasy green. “Well, that’s—”

“And where would he be getting this supposed love potion from?” Marianne says, giving the Sugar Plum Fairy a sharp look. “It’s illegal. Not to be made ever again. _Isn’t that right, Lady Plum?_ ”

The Sugar Plum Fairy gives another, even more nervous, titter of laughter.

“Yes, yes of course; it’s illegal!” she says. “So obviously—obviously he couldn’t have—”

“He must have been saving it,” Roland says. “From before the ban. I’m sure none of use here mean to accuse Lady Plum of anything.”

He gives Lady Plum a gallant bow and the watching crowd murmurs.

“I am not under a love potion,” Marianne says. “Can’t you all see that he’s just trying to distract—”

“Say it, then,” Roland says. “Tell us all,” he gestures to the entire ballroom, “that you’re not in love with him. Say that you’re not in love with him. Surely, if you’re not under the potion, you can say that.”

Marianne goes very still. She is terribly conscious of Bog, at her side, terribly conscious of everyone watching the two of them. There’s a smile hovering around the edges of Roland’s mouth, now, and his eyes are glittering oddly as he looks at her.

He knows, Marianne realizes with a jolt. Roland knows that she’s in love with Bog. He knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

“You son of a bitch,” Marianne says softly. “You have no right to ask me that. None of you do. It’s none of your business whether or not I happen to be _in love with my husband_.”

“I’d say, given the circumstances, it’s pretty important, Marianne,” Roland says, “and it’s a simple enough question. Can’t you answer?”

“I will have your head on a spike,” Marianne says. “How dare you.”

“I’d dare anything for you, Marianne,” Roland says, and he sounds so sincere, so convincing, that something inside Marianne, some thread of self-control, just snaps.

She lets go of Bog’s hand and launches herself at Roland, sword upraised to strike. He makes an alarmed sound.

“Hold her! Hold her!” he shouts, and suddenly Marianne finds herself surrounded by guards.

“Marianne!” Bog says, and, turning, she sees him moving towards her, fear and fury written on his face.

“If he moves any closer, slit his mother’s throat!” Roland shouts, and Bog stops in his tracks.

Marianne tries to leap into the air and take flight, but someone catches her around the ankle and drags her back down. She attempts to fight, but there are too many of them, too close; they overwhelm her by sheer numbers and pull her sword from her grasp.

“Careful with her, now.” Roland says. “Careful. She’s not herself.”

The guards holding her arms ease their grip accordingly; the others draw back. Marianne forces herself to relax as if in surrender.

Roland must notice this, because there’s a very slight note of satisfaction in his voice as he says, “Careful with her,” again.

Marianne pants for breath, trembling withe the effort of keeping herself from fighting.

“There, now, Marianne,” Roland tells her, “nobody wants to hurt you. We all want to make sure you’re all right, that’s all. We’re worried about you.”

Marianne looks at Roland, looks at his beautiful face, and his beautiful expression of sincerity, and she summons up every bit of deception in her soul—

—and she makes an expression of uncertainty cross her face.

Oh, and Roland _definitely_ sees that; she sees his eyes light up. He takes a step towards her, and then another.

“Come on, Marianne,” he says gently, “You think you’re in love with him; I know you do. But it isn’t real, Buttercup. Doesn’t it seem strange to you, that you feel that way?”

Marianne licks her lips, casts a quick look at Bog over her shoulder, then looks back at Roland, her eyes wide. She tries to deepen the expression of uncertainty.

“I—” she says, making her voice waver. “I don’t—he _wouldn’t_ , though—”

Roland hears the lack of conviction in her voice, she can tell. He takes another step towards her, motions to the guards to release her. Marianne pulls her wings close, curves her shoulders inwards, angles her head down so that she’s looking up at Roland.

 _I learned this for you_ , she thinks viciously. _I learned to make myself seem small for **you**._

She pulls her hands in to her body, hides them in her skirts, lets them twist in seeming nervousness.

“He _wouldn’t_ ,” she says again, voice trembling even more, and now she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

She sees triumph flash in Roland’s expression for a split second—he thinks he has her; he thinks he’s won. He takes one more step toward her—

And Marianne stabs him in the shoulder with the little dagger she’s slipped from the hidden pocket of her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all again--and always!--for the lovely reviews! I love reading them so much.


	14. Chapter 14

Sir Roland stumbles back from Marianne, screeching in pain and clutching his shoulder. Bog, forced to stand immobile, sees the dagger in Marianne’s hand and realizes what she’s done in a rush of adoration.

She got Sir Roland between the joints of armor that protect his shoulder—not a fatal wound, more’s the pity—and the guards quickly surround her again and pull the dagger from her grasp.

“Marianne!” her father cries, sounding shocked, as though Marianne stabbing the twit is somehow surprising behavior for her.

Sir Roland makes another sound of pain, clenching his jaw, and Marianne bares her teeth at him. She looks, in this moment, like she could eat his heart, the way Bog imagined her doing the first day they met. He rather hopes he gets to watch, if she does.

“Search. Her,” Roland grits out. “Make sure she doesn’t have any more weapons.” He forces a look of concern over top of his obvious pain. “We don’t want her hurting herself, now do we?”

Marianne’s eyes go wide at that, and she twists in her captors’ grasp, fighting as one of them pats her down quickly. The guard hesitates with one hand near her skirt, and then—

“Er…I found something,” he says, holding up—is that the bottle of headache potion Bog gave to Marianne?

Surely they aren’t going to try to pretend that’s love potion; one taste will prove them wrong, and Plum is here to confirm.

There’s a long beat of silence before Roland responds, but at last he reaches out for the bottle.

“And what,” he says, “is this?”

“It’s—nothing; it’s for headaches; it’s empty—” Marianne says.

Roland looks at her, eyebrows raised.

“Well, which is it, Marianne,” he says in a condescending drawl. “Is it for headaches? Or is it empty?”

“It was for headaches, but it’s empty now, because I already took it!” Marianne says, twisting in the grasp of her captors, reaching for the bottle.

“Where’d you get this headache potion from, then?” Roland says.

Marianne is silent.

“It’s quite an unusual lookin’ bottle,” Roland continues. “Made out of stone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bottle like this before.”

He looks it over somewhat theatrically, holding the bottle up so that everyone can see, then does a visible double take as he glances at the bottom of the bottle, where Bog knows his own rune is carved.

“There’s a mark here,” Roland says. “It looks like—”

“It’s mine,” Bog says, impatient with all the playacting. “I gave her the bottle because she had a headache. There was never any love potion in it.”

Roland turns to Dagda.

“Your Majesty, with your permission—I think we’d better just check, don’t you?”

“—yes, yes,” Dagda says, avoiding Marianne’s eyes. “Yes, make sure it’s empty.”

Roland bows his head to Dagda and, his movements slightly exaggerated, he removes the bottle’s stopper, upends the bottle—

—and pours a stream of shimmering pink dust out and onto the dance floor.

The smell of primroses fills the air.

The entire crowd takes a sharp breath; Bog does, too.

He looks at Marianne, meets her wide-eyed gaze, and every other person in the room fades into insignificance.

“That was not in the bottle when I gave it to you,” he says to her forcefully. “I would not do that, Marianne.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t,” she says, as though the idea is unworthy of a moment’s consideration. “Besides, I was already—”

She cuts herself off abruptly, color draining from her face, and shakes her head.

“I don’t understand,” she says, “—I don’t know how that—I drank the headache potion; I drank it; the bottle was empty! I don’t understand how it could have—I don’t understand how the love potion could have gotten—”

“She only thought it was a headache potion!” someone in the crowd says.

“She thought it was a headache potion so she drank it!” another person in the crowd says, and a murmur of angry agreement sweeps through the crowd.

“That isn’t even how the love potion works!” Bog says, an edge to his voice as he raises it. “You drink the headache cure; you dust the love potion on someone! They’re not even close to the same—”

“You’re awful knowledgeable about that love potion,” Roland says, and the comment sets the crowd to muttering again.

“Yes, because I did try to use it once,” Bog says, baring his teeth at Roland, “I thought we already established that—”

“And this is the man,” Roland says, turning to the crowd, gesturing at Bog, “this is the man that Princess Marianne believes would never use a love potion! You all can see how her mind’s been twisted by—”

“I tried to use it once!” Bog says, “And then I realized how wrong using it is, and I banned the damn thing instead, because some of us have consciences and are capable of learning from our mistakes! And _her title,_ ” he snarls, pointing at Marianne, “you arrogant, conniving little weasel, is _Queen!_ ”

He hears Marianne take a sharp breath, and he looks over at her. She’s staring at him, her lips parted, two spots of color high on her cheeks, with an expression that—

“How do we know she wasn’t the one who used the love potion?”

Marianne turns to look in the direction of the voice; Bog turns as well. The goblin who spoke swallows when their glances fall on him, but he gives the room a defiant look.

“I’m just saying!” he says. “She’s the one with the bottle!”

“Somebody kick him,” Bog’s mother says.

“She’s the one who had the love potion!” the goblin repeats doggedly. “What, are we supposed to think the empty bottle got filled up with love potion magically while it was in her pocket? Or that somebody changed it out without anyone noticing? While she was standing up there in front of everyone for the ceremony today? While she was sitting up in front of us all for the banquet? While we were all watching her dancing with the King?”

“You’re going to want,” Bog says, voice low and dangerous, “to stop talkin’, now.”

The goblin quails visibly and goes silent.

“It could have—” Marianne begins, and then stops.

Bog looks over at her; she’s very pale once more, and she looks almost frightened as she meets his gaze.

“The love potion—could have been put in the bottle—before today,” she says. “Without me knowing.”

Bog frowns at her, confused.

“But you drank the headache cure,” he says.

Marianne swallows visibly.

“Weeks ago,” she says. “I drank it weeks ago.”

Bog’s frown of confusion deepens.

“Then why would you—” he begins.

“Why would she be carrying around an empty bottle?” someone demands. “The story doesn’t even make sense!”

“She’s lying!”

“He’s the one who’s lying!”

“People, people!” Roland says, holding up a hand, and the angry voices of the crowd die down to a low murmur of discontent. “Now, let’s all just calm down for a moment!” He gives them a charming, conciliating smile. “And consider all the evidence.”

* * *

The Imp is not having a very nice time.

It has been screamed at and hit by a pillow; it has been growled at by the fierce flying one who the Imp still suspects might have meant to eat it—it has been locked in a box by another, even more spiteful flying one, and when the other flying one finally freed it from its confinement, she had screeched and thrown a bottle of smelly perfume at its head!

But the Imp had persevered, in spite of its difficulties; it had tracked the spiteful flying one who held the Love Potion to this big room full of people, and then it had wisely hidden itself beneath a little decorative table with a nice long tablecloth to wait for a chance to try once more for the potion.

At first, it had not been so bad; there were many, many people crowded in the ballroom, all of their varied feelings swirling and mingling delightfully, and, in the midst of everything, the scent of the Love Potion, promising future joys for the Imp.

But then—fear and panic and anger and sorrow all through the big room, from all of the people, the heavy, acrid smell of bad feelings making the Imp whimper quietly to itself and huddle into a tight ball beneath the table, behind the protective curtain of the tablecloth.

It can barely even smell the Love Potion, beneath all of the bad feelings that roil through the room.

The Imp whimpers again, clutching its head with its paws.

And suddenly—in the midst of the fear and the anger—another scent; a different scent.

Joy and satisfaction.

Tinged with a bitter overtone of malice, true, but after the miasma of fear and anger, the Imp is feeling none too particular. It edges gratefully closer to tablecloth, inhales the aroma of satisfaction gratefully and then—

The Imp squeaks softly.

The Love Potion! With the spiteful-joy smell, beneath the joyful-spiteful smell!

Carefully, the Imp pokes its nose beneath the curtain, peeps out at the big room.

Yes! Yes, there was the mean flying one; that was the source of the spiteful-joy smell, and the source of the scent of the Love Potion!

The mean flying one still had the potion!

Cautiously, the Imp slips from beneath the table, into the forest of legs and skirts. It moves between the spaces in this forest as sneakily as it can.

Nobody notices the Imp; they are much too busy looking at the mean flying one. The Imp looks at the mean flying one as well, and moves stealthily towards him, and the Love Potion he carries.

* * *

Bella is definitely regretting coming to Princess Dawn’s wedding, now.

She could be home, at this moment, sitting quietly alone, listening to the rain on her rooftop.

Instead, she’s trapped in this crowd, everyone all packed together, forced to bear witness to what appears to be the imminent collapse of their government. And Roland—Roland—is in the middle of everything.

Beside her, Celeste, clutching Angelique’s arm, gives a low moan. Bella wholeheartedly agrees with the sentiment.

“Shh, shh,” Angelique says soothingly. She reaches out to pat take Bella’s hand with her free one. “Shh; it’ll be over soon.”

This is a nightmare, Bella decides calmly, clutching Angelique’s hand so tightly that her knuckles turn white. This definitely cannot really be happening.

“Now, let’s all just calm down for a moment,” Roland says, and at the sound of his voice, Bella clutches Angelique’s hand even harder.

Celeste has started, quietly, to cry. Bella twists her free hand in her sleeve; the closest thing to comfort she can manage at this moment.

“And consider the evidence,” Roland says.

He gives the entire room a look of earnest concern.

“There’s the way Marianne’s been acting—the letter she sent me, commanding this coup!” he holds up the letter. “The necklace—” he holds it up, “and the lock of her hair—” he holds up a lock of dark hair, held together with a ribbon, and Bella feels as though she may scream and scream and keep on screaming.

“—that she sent to me,” Roland says, “as proof of our rekindled love! And yet she stands there and says she prefers this—”

“Why would I ever love you, Roland?” the Queen’s voice rings out suddenly, loud and clear over Roland, over the crowd, over the entire ballroom. “You were unfaithful to me.”

There is a moment of silence.

And then Roland makes a wounded kind of sound, puts his hand over his heart.

“Unfaithful to you?” he says. “Buttercup, how can you say somethin’ like that? This potion has twisted your mind, Marianne; I would never be unfaithful to you.”

Bella takes a sharp breath. She feels—

Oddly light. Strangely free.

All at once, everything seems very, very simple.

She turns to Angelique, to Celeste.

“Excuse me for one moment, won’t you,” she says, and then she turns away and elbows the man in front of her to make him move aside, pushes past him, through the crowd, to the edge of the dance floor, where Roland is still assuring the Queen of his complete and utter devotion.

Bella takes a breath, and she raises her chin.

And she steps out onto the dance floor.

“You are a liar, Roland,” she says, shocked at the volume and conviction in her own voice. “And that’s my lock of hair.”

Marianne blinks at the girl who has just stepped onto the dance floor. She looks—familiar—?

The girl turns to Marianne, ignoring Roland, who is gaping at her, mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

“I am so sorry,” the girl says to Marianne, and all at once Marianne realizes why she looks familiar—she’s the girl that Marianne saw Roland with, on the day she was going to marry him.

“I truly am,” the girl says, tears in her eyes but her chin upraised. “I didn’t know how it was. He told me—he told me that it was a political marriage for both of you, that neither of you—I’m so sorry—”

“I don’t blame you,” Marianne says.

The girl’s makes a choked sound.

“I wanted—I wanted to tell you—I’ve felt so guilty,” she says, tears spilling over, “and so—so stupid—and I wanted to tell you—but you never said anything; you never told anyone why you called off the wedding, and I was—afraid—”

Marianne’s heart gives a sudden twist of guilt. It never even occurred to her that this girl might feel this way, that Marianne’s silence about what Roland had done to her might hurt someone, might hurt—

“What’s your name?” Marianne asks.

“Bella,” the girl says, “my—my name is Bella, Your Majesty.”

“You were never to blame, Bella,” Marianne says. “I felt stupid, too; I felt stupid and I felt like it had been my fault, that I deserved what happened to me because I’d been stupid enough to believe him. That’s why I never told anyone.”

Bella presses a hand to her mouth and nods wordlessly, emphatically.

“Neither of us deserved it, though,” Marianne says. “You didn’t deserve it, Bella and—” Marianne swallows. “And neither did I.”

Bella lowers her hand from her mouth, clenches both her hands into fists, and smiles at Marianne through her tears.

“I never gave Roland a lock of my hair,” Marianne says. “But our hair’s the same color. And you did give him a lock of your hair.”

“Yes,” Bella says, loudly and clearly, “yes I did.”

“This—this is nonsense!” Roland says. “I’ve never seen this girl in my life!”

“I never gave him my necklace,” Marianne says to the crowd that watches them all, “and I never wrote him that letter, either.”

“Did you ever?”

Marianne and Bella both turn at the new voice, which belongs to a girl with golden hair, who has stepped determinedly out onto the floor as well, in spite of her friend that keeps trying to pull her back into the crowd.

“I’m sorry?” Marianne says to this new girl. “What do you—”

“Celeste, Your Majesty,” the blonde girl says, and Marianne sees that she’s been crying too. She’s not crying, now, though; is standing as though she’s got iron in her spine.

“What—” Roland begins, in an outraged voice.

“Celeste,” Marianne says, ignoring Roland, her eyes fixed on the girl. “What do you have to say?”

“Did you ever write him a letter like that?” Celeste says. “Back when you were courting with him, maybe? Because that letter sounds like it could be about anything, and I know for a fact that he keeps all of the love tokens from all of the girls he charms.” She turns to Roland, gives him a smile that seems to contain too many teeth. “I found them. When I went to his room looking for the man who said that he loved only me.”

“That’s a lie!” Roland cries. “I don’t even know this—”

“—but—”

Marianne and the other women look at Celeste’s friend, who has just spoken.

“—but he said—” the girl says, looking at Celeste with an expression of wounded shock. “—but he said that—”

She covers her mouth with both hands, making a sound like a muffled sob, and Celeste throws her arms around her.

“Oh, no, Angelique; you too?”

“I didn’t know he was—Celeste, I would never—he said it was more romantic if we—”

 _“—kept it a secret,”_ Celeste, Angelique, and Bella all say together.

Bella reaches out and puts her hand on Angelique’s shoulder, and all three of them turn murderous glares on Roland.

His face is ashen, now, his eyes darting side to side.

“I—” he says, “I don’t—”

The crowd is murmuring angrily again, but it’s all feminine voices, this time, all of them getting louder. The two soldiers holding Marianne’s arms exchange nervous glances with each other, their grip loosening.

“The letter!” Roland says, rallying. “The letter has the Queen’s seal on it; you all saw!”

“I’ll bet he forged it,” Angelique says. “That’s treason, isn’t it.”

Marianne looks at the soldiers holding her arms with an icily upraised eyebrow. One of them gulps audibly; the other turns pale.

“Maybe he stole it like he stole the necklace!” a girl shouts from somewhere in the crowd.

Several more women chime in, agreeing.

“He stole it when he planted that love potion in the Queen’s rooms!” a woman says.

“I saw him hanging around her door!” a girl says.

“So did I!” shouts another.

“I saw him coming out of her rooms!” another girl says.

“That’s a lie! No one saw me!” Roland says, rounding on the voice.

The crowd takes a sharp, collective breath.

“—because I wasn’t there!” Roland adds, after just half a moment too long.

“Tell me,” Marianne says, “when was it that my husband supposedly used that love potion on me? Was it before I allegedly plotted with you to overthrow him? Because that doesn’t make any sense, now; does it? Or was it after I allegedly sent you that letter? Oh—no, but that doesn’t make any sense, either; does it? Because if he had used the love potion on me after I planned a coup against him, surely I would have told him about it.”

The soldiers holding Marianne’s arms take a sharp breath each and release her, drawing back from both her and Roland.

“You,” Marianne says, to Roland, her lip curling. “You put that love potion in my room, didn’t you?”

“No!” Roland says, eyes wild. “No, I never had any love potion!”

“Yes, you did!” Celeste says. “I gave it to him!”

She turns to look at Marianne, and at Bog, who, in all the commotion, has moved silently to stand at Marianne’s side.

“I wasn’t going to use it to make anyone fall in love,” Celeste says, “I—Roland said—that it worked as an aphrodisiac for people who were already in love.” She shoots a venomous glare at Roland, then looks back at Marianne and Bog, her expression nervous but determined. “I do know it’s illegal, though, so—”

Bog makes a sound that Marianne is pretty sure is a choked laugh.

“Under the—ah—the circumstances,” he says. “I think we can waive any—legal repercussions.”

“An aphrodisiac?” the Sugar Plum Fairy exclaims. “Oh, no, my dear; no! Why didn’t you say so; I would have set you straight right away!”

“So you did make the potion,” Bog says.

Lady Plum gives a nervous titter of laughter.

“Well; I just—she seemed so sad, and I just hate to see anybody suffering and—”

“Never. Again,” Bog says, almost growls. “Never again, Plum. I don’t actually want t’ keep you locked up, but if you don’t stop givin’ people that potion, I am going to have to. It’s not right, doing that to people.”

Lady Plum wilts a bit.

“Oh—oh, all right,” she says. “If you absolutely insist.”

“I really do,” Bog says.

“So I take it the potion’s not an aphrodisiac if you’re already in love, then?” Marianne says.

“Oh, no no no!” Lady Plum says, becoming animated again. “No, the potion is very simple! Dust the one you love, and be the first one they see when they open their eyes! And if they’re already in love, then it just doesn’t work!”

“What.” Bog says blankly.

“Yes, of course!” Lady Plum says, “And that’s what happened with you, on that Fateful Day all those—”

“Son of a bitch,” Marianne says, turning on Roland again as understanding strikes her. “Dust the person, and then be the first one they see when they open their eyes—that’s what you were doing outside my room that day! That’s why the dust smelled like flowers. You sneaky, slimy—”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Roland says desperately.

The crowd around him seems to be very full of women, now, all of them drawing closer. Roland looks around at all of them, panic in his eyes.

“I don’t know what they’re talkin’ about, Your Majesty,” he says to Marianne’s father, “I don’t know what they’re talkin’ about; I never had any love—”

It is at this moment that the Imp emerges from behind a woman with a very large peony-petal skirt and leaps, claws first and screeching, straight at Roland.

Roland screams as well, and stumbles back, but it is too late, and the Imp is upon him, claws skittering on Roland’s armor as it dives into the pouch at Roland’s hip and emerges—

The shout Roland gives this time is one of dismay as well as fear as the Imp scurries up his back and then launches itself off of Roland’s head with a triumphant screech, taking the Love Potion and a fair-sized clump of Roland’s hair with it.

Roland shrieks in pain, and clutches his head. The Imp, Love Potion clutched in its paws, lands on a long table and begins to run for the windows.

“Catch it!” Bog cries, moving already.

“Stop it!” Marianne shouts, also in motion.

The Imp jumps and grabs hold of one of the curtains and all of the nearby members of the crowd draw back from it in a sudden alarm.

Bog and Marianne both leap for the Imp, but it’s clear that neither of them will reach it in time to stop it from escaping.

“No!” Bog shouts.

The Princess Dawn gives a high-pitched scream, and then her shoe, flying through the air, catches the Imp in the back of the head with a solid thwack.

The Imp squeaks and loses its grip on both the curtains and the Love Potion.

The Imp falls safely into a decorative potted plant.

The bottle of Love Potion falls to the ballroom floor, and shatters in an explosion of brilliant light and sparkling pink dust.

All over Marianne and Bog.

* * *

Bog shakes pink dust off of his wings, out of his robes. Marianne, across from him, is coughing and doing the same.

“Primroses,” he says. “I hate primroses.”

Marianne looks at him, an expression of disgust on her face.

“I think I’m starting to agree,” she says.

And Bog—

(oh no the love potion and she’s looking at him he can’t do that do her he can’t let her—)

Marianne freezes, looking at him, both of them standing very still—

“Are—you all right?” Bog asks, his heart in his throat.

Marianne is still for half a moment longer, and then—

“Of course,” she says, “why wouldn’t I be?”

She gives a shiver of her wings, shaking the last of the potion from them, and turns away.

“Well done, Dawn,” she says to her sister.

And—

It didn’t work, Bog realizes, relief warring with despair inside him.

Of course it didn’t work. He is too—no.

No, it’s worse than that, worse than his original assumption that he’s simply too hideous to love. Plum had said—the potion didn’t work if the person was already in love.

Bog swallows.

It’s funny. He hadn’t realized he’d been hoping he was wrong about what Marianne wanted until that last bit of hope was taken from him.

He’d thought he was resigned, but oh—he had hoped, deep down, that he was wrong, that when he showed Marianne those divorce contracts, she would tell him that she didn’t want to leave him, that she wanted to stay with him—that she’d only asked for the ban against love to be lifted for her sister’s sake, that her strained manner recently had another explanation, that they are friends, that friendship with her husband is enough for her—

(he had hoped that, someday, years and years from now, she might look at him and find she’s able to look past his hideousness, past their unhappy beginning, that she might look at him and be able to love—)

There’s really nothing so cruel as hope.

Dawn has run to Marianne, has her arms around her older sister, is babbling to her—

“—of course it wasn’t your fault; of course I knew right away it wasn’t true; Marianne; you’d never plan a coup on my wedding day—”

Laughter sticks in Bog’s throat like a sob. Dawn looks over her shoulder at him and releases Marianne, takes her new husband’s hand. Sunny pats her hand like he’s reassuring himself as much as her.

Marianne’s father is standing near her, shifting his weight uncertainly.

“—er—Marianne,” he says.

Bog sees Marianne’s eyes flash dangerously, but she shakes her head and steps forward to move past her father. Dagda catches her arm, though, his expression one of agonized guilt.

“Marianne, darling—”

“Don’t,” Marianne says in a low voice, and jerks her arm away from him.

“I was only trying to protect you—”

“I think,” Marianne says, “that I have had more than enough of your brand of protection, father.”

She walks past him, and the crowd parts before her.

Roland is still in the middle of the ballroom when she reaches it, though it’s clearly not by choice. Several of the guards are holding him in place. Even now, though, restrained on his knees, with his hair in ruined disarray, he still gives her his best and most charming smile; a coaxing thing that hints at shared secrets and hidden affection if she’ll just give him a little bit more, if she’ll just give him everything.

Marianne used to love that smile.

“Hand me my sword,” Marianne says, and has the pleasure of seeing the blood drain from his handsome face.

The guard who took her sword at Roland’s orders hands the blade to her now. He cannot meet her eyes when Marianne looks at him.

Marianne, sword in hand, looks around at every member of her palace guard who took Roland’s orders over her own, and every single one of them drops their gaze. She looks at her father, and his eyes drop as well.

“If any of you ever,” Marianne says to the room at large, a steely tone to her voice, “question my authority like that again, I will have you banished for treason. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmur, heads bowed.

“How fortunate,” Marianne says, her lip curling.

She looks down at Roland once more.

“Release him,” she says.

“—Your Majesty?” one of the guards says, in a shocked tone.

“I said, release him,” Marianne says, and gives the guard a sweet smile with poison at the bottom of it. “I do hope you’re not questioning my authority.”

The guard goes as pale as Roland. They release him, but he stays on his knees, looking up at Marianne, his smile a little wider, even more coaxing.

“Buttercup—”

“Get up,” Marianne says.

Roland does, his hands upraised as if in playful surrender.

“Draw your sword,” Marianne says.

Shock flits across Roland’s face.

“Now, Marianne—” he begins.

She doesn’t give him time to finish, but lunges forward, bringing her sword down towards him. He draws his own sword and brings it up just in time to avoid being sliced in half.

“Marianne—”

She strikes again, and again he just barely manages to parry.

“Marianne, please—”

He takes a stumbling step backwards as she advances on him, raining blows down on him swiftly.

“Marianne, come on, now—”

She drives him back and back, the crowd parting before them, Roland struggling to block her attacks. One of them gets past his guard, slicing one of his wingtips. He makes a noise of pain and rage and finally starts fighting in earnest, attacking her with rage and desperation.

Roland is, Marianne will admit, good with a blade.

But she is much, much better.

Marianne drives him back and back, out of the ballroom and into the entrance hall, the crowd following. She catches him behind his knee, at a joint in his armor, with her blade and he takes to the air, but he’s slowed by his wounded wing, and she gets above him, slams the pommel of her sword down on his head and then cuts him again, near the base of his other wing, this time. He lands clumsily, stumbling, almost losing his footing, and Marianne follows him down, her sword flashing as she strikes at him again and again.

He snarls at her and Marianne laughs in his face.

“You’re—gonna—regret this, Marianne,” he says. “You’re gonna come to your senses someday—and realize—that you’re shackled with that beast—when you could have been—with me.”

Then they’re at the palace entranceway—Marianne locks her blade with Roland’s and presses him back towards the doors with all her weight.

“ _You_ ,” Marianne says, all of her fury returning full force. “Why would I want to be with _you_? All you ever did was make me doubt myself. You made me feel helpless—and stupid—and weak. Like I could never be good enough for you. _Who’s_ the beast, Roland?”

She gives one last shove, making him slam back against the doors, sending them flying open and him stumbling out onto the palace steps.

“But you want to know something, Roland?” Marianne shouts over the sound of the storm, following him out into the rain. “Do you want to know what Bog told me? He said our kingdom could have won the war—if I had been the one leading the army.”

The steps are slick with the rain that still pours down; Roland slips and just barely recovers his footing as she drives him down them.

“And you want to know something else, Roland?” Marianne shouts. “Do you want to know what I realize now?

Thunder rolls in the distance.

 _“He was right,”_ she says, and she snaps out her wings in defiance of the storm and gives one last furious strike with her sword that sends Roland’s weapon flying out of his hand.

Her blade slices across the left side of Roland’s face, all the way across his cheek, from his temple to his jaw and he screams and falls and tumbles down the last few steps.

Marianne furls her wings and looks down at him coldly.

Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating him with a sudden bright light. He’s clutching his face, now, making a sound that’s somewhere in between screaming and sobbing, blood pouring between his fingers from his ruined face.

“You’re nothing, Roland,” she says, and turns away from him.

The crowd has followed the two of them; some of them all the way outside. Most of the men in the crowd draw back from Marianne as she walks past them, but the women look at her with shining eyes.

Bog is standing beside the door, the falling rain sliding down his face, down the edges of his carapace, and Marianne sees only admiration in his eyes as he meets her gaze.

He holds his arm out to her wordlessly and she takes it, and the two of them walk back into the palace.

Back in the ballroom, Marianne shakes water droplets from her wings and looks up at Bog. He looks down at her steadily, a fierce kind of adoration in his heart.

“We need a company of guards from the Dark Forest,” she says. “To help train our new recruits.”

Bog smiles at her, slow and wicked.

“Will we be having new recruits, then?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, don’t you think so?” Marianne says, matching his sharp smile with one of her own. “Anyone who volunteers will be considered—regardless of sex or species—as long as they are not currently employed in the royal guard.”

One of the soldiers nearest to her makes a noise of dismay, and Marianne turns to him, her smile going even sharper.

“Is there something you have to say for yourself?” she says.

“I—n-no—no, Your Majesty.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says. She looks at the rest of the guards. “Those of you currently employed in the royal guard may consider yourself released from your employment and stripped of your rank. In two months time, when the new guard is established, you will once again have the chance to present yourself as volunteers. Should you elect to do so, each of you will be considered for acceptance individually and on a case-by-case basis. None of your former ranks shall be reinstated, regardless.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence in the ballroom.

“I’d advise you all to throw down your weapons, now,” Bog says almost lazily, but with a clear threat beneath the words, “I’d hate t’ see the Queen have to get annoyed again.”

The entirety of the former royal Fairy Guard disarms itself without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all so much for continuing to read and comment! You all make me so happy!


	15. Chapter 15

“Your Majesty—”

Marianne turns at the sound of Celeste’s voice, letting go of Bog’s arm.

Celeste is holding something out to Marianne—that letter Roland had tried to use. Marianne only keeps herself from recoiling from it by an act of will.

“We thought,” says Celeste, “that you might want to burn it.”

Marianne takes the letter from Celeste, holding it with just the tips of her fingers, reluctant to touch it any more than she has to.

“That,” Marianne says, “is exactly what I want to do.”

She turns to the nearest torch on the wall, holds the corner of the paper to the flame, watches it catch fire. The edges of the page curl as flames dance over the paper. Marianne holds it out at arm’s length, watching the fire, watching the wax seal with the royal mark on it blur and melt and drip, watching the flames lick closer and closer to her fingers. And then she drops it.

The burning letter falls to the flagstones, where it burns for only a few more moments before guttering out, nothing but black ashes and melted wax and a little wisp of smoke. She looks up from it, feeling, somehow, more free.

A little knot of women has gathered before her to watch the burning of the letter, and Marianne, looking at them, sees her own vicious satisfaction reflected in their eyes.

“Bella already burned her hair,” the woman named Angelique says.

“And after the ball, we’re all going to go to his room and find the rest of all our things,” says another woman.

“And burn them all,” says a girl.

Marianne smiles at them, the edges of it sharp.

“Perhaps you’d better burn all of his own things, as well,” she says. “It’ll be dry enough tomorrow for a bonfire.”

A vindictive murmur goes through the group of women.

“Here, Your Majesty,” Bella says, “we—took these off of him, too.”

She holds Marianne’s pearl necklace out to her. Marianne puts out her hand and Bella lets the rope of pearls drop into Marianne’s palm and coil there, milk-white and gleaming softly in the torchlight of the ballroom.

“Thank you,” Marianne says to Bella, looking her in the eyes.

Bella’s mouth trembles for a moment, a sheen of tears starting to rise in her eyes, and then she nods decisively at Marianne and steps back into the crowd of women.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Griselda says. “Let’s hear some music; let’s get some snacks!”

Dawn, standing next to Griselda and still clutching her slipper in her hand, looks startled.

“—but—” she says. “Won’t everyone be wanting to—?”

“What, leave?” Griselda says. “Already? The party’s barely started! You don’t wanna let all these nice decorations go to waste, now do you?”

Dawn stares at her for a long moment, and then Marianne sees her chin go up, sees a gleam appear in her eye.

“You know what?” she says, putting on her slipper. She smiles widely at Griselda. “I did work hard on these decorations! Let’s have some music!”

A cheer goes up from the crowd, and suddenly people are talking and laughing again, relief making everyone giddy. All of the musicians, fairy and goblin alike, converge on the orchestra seats in a confused mass, most of them re-tuning their instruments, the varied sounds of that adding greatly to the general cacophony.

One of the goblin musicians squeezes through the crowd and bobs a quick bow at Dawn.

“Er—and which music will you be wanting, now, Your Highness?”

“Oh!” Dawn says. She looks at Marianne. “Do you two still—?”

Marianne blinks.

“—oh,” she says. “I mean—” she glances up at Bog. “You’ve—probably seen enough of me with a sword tonight…”

Bog tilts his head at her, a smile hovering around the edges of his mouth.

“Tough girl,” he says, “I sincerely doubt that I’ll ever get tired of seein’ you with a sword.”

He does smile at her then, his eyes, unfairly blue and unfairly affectionate, on her face, and Marianne feels, all at once, as if she has stepped too close to a blazing fire, her body going hot and her breath stolen as if by the flames.

She pictures, suddenly, vividly, and entirely without meaning to, dropping her sword and twisting her hands in Bog’s robes, using her grip on them to drag his mouth down to hers, one of his hands on the back of her neck, his other arm around her waist, pulling her body against his, pictures the hand on the back of her neck sliding down her spine and coming to rest between her wings and—

“May I?” Bog asks, still looking at her.

“Yes,” Marianne says breathlessly.

And she means _yes, you may kiss me; yes you may sweep me off my feet and into your arms and carry me out of this ballroom in front of everyone; yes—_

And she only understands what he’s actually asking when he reaches for the pearls in her hand.

Marianne goes perfectly still.

Oh—

She cannot seem to breathe, cannot seem to think; he didn’t mean—but now he’s going to—

The pearls click together softly as he picks them up, holding them carefully.

(there are people all around them; all around them, but all Marianne sees of them, hears of them, is a blur of color and sound at the edges of her awareness; her entire attention is on Bog.)

He holds her necklace in one hand, touches her shoulder lightly with the other, and Marianne feels like a paper held to a flame at that touch, feels as if her whole body catches fire at the slight pressure of his fingertips.

She turns for him, responding to the request of his touch without conscious thought, letting him lead her as though the two of them are already dancing.

People move in front of her eyes, but she sees none of them, is conscious only of Bog, standing behind her, now.

He takes a step forward, close enough to touch the edges of her skirts; she feels the petals move, feels the edges of his robes brush against the tips of her furled wings, and then his hands are near her shoulders, near her jaw, close enough that she can feel the movement though his skin never touches hers.

The touch of the pearls against her skin is cool as he wraps the necklace around her throat. She feels the weight of the pearls as Bog closes the clasp at the back of her neck, as he allows the necklace to settle into place.

The long rope of pearls, meant to lie between her wings, is draped forward over Marianne’s right shoulder, the final, teardrop shaped pearl at the end of it lying atop her breast. Bog hooks his fingers beneath the rope at the back of Marianne’s neck and pulls the rest of the necklace over her shoulder, pearls sliding slowly up her chest like a caress.

He doesn’t touch her even as he settles the rope of pearls between her wings, and the weight of the pearls against her spine there is almost unbearable to Marianne—too much and not enough at the same time and she stares blindly out at the ballroom and clutches the pommel of her sword so tightly that it hurts, trying to ground herself with the pain.

“There,” Bog says in a low voice, and the sound of that, so near to her ear, almost makes her knees give out. “All finished.”

“How—how does it look?” Marianne asks, wildly, recklessly.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and she imagines that he must be looking at her, that his eyes must be following the line of pearls from the nape of her neck down her spine and between her wings, imagines him noticing the way the bases of both her wings just barely show around the edges of her dress, imagines him pressing his thumbs there, just there, at the place where her wings join her skin, imagines—

“Beautiful,” Bog says. “It looks beautiful.”

And Marianne turns; she cannot help herself; she turns to face him, without giving him time to step away, and she’s practically in his arms, would be in his arms if he would just reach out and he’s looking down at her face, looking startled, and Marianne—

“Here’s your sword, Sire!” Thang’s cheerful voice says.

They both jump; Bog jumps backwards, away from her.

“What?” Bog says, looking at Thang, not looking at Marianne, carefully keeping his eyes off her face as though he’s afraid of what he might see there.

“For the dance!” Thang says, holding the sword up helpfully for Bog to take.

Bog takes it and Marianne turns away, tries to regain her composure, pull together the tattered pieces of her control.

“Ready to start, your majesties?” Thang asks.

Marianne takes a breath and turns back to them, smiling as calmly as she can.

“Yes,” she says, “yes; we’re ready to start, now.”

***

He’s lost his mind, Bog decides, as he and Marianne both take up the opening stance for the sword dance. There’s no other explanation for the way he’d asked Marianne to allow him to help her with her necklace.

Standing that close to her, arranging the necklace so that it hung between her wings, and then he hadn’t stepped away as soon as it was done, hadn’t stepped away, like he damn well knew he should have, and he marvels now that he was able to resist actually touching her, brushing his fingers over the petals of her dress and then over her skin, finding out which was softer.

And then she’d asked him how the necklace looked, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from looking, really looking at her, his eyes going where his hands wanted to, following the pearls down from the base of her neck to the middle of her back, to the place where her wings meet her back, and she must have heard something of his desire in his voice when he answered that it was beautiful, because she turned quickly towards him, spinning around like she was afraid he would touch her, eyes wide as she looked at him and—

The music strikes up and Bog and Marianne begin the opening steps of the dance.

And she’d been right to worry that he might touch her, Bog admits grimly as he and Marianne dance. If Thang hadn’t interrupted right then, Bog is fairly certain that he would have done something unforgivable like try to kiss her.

Marianne spins gracefully in towards him, their blades sliding past each other perfectly. Bog catches her around the waist and she takes hold of his wrist, unfurling her wings, using her grip on him to kick herself up backwards and take to the air. Bog changes the grip of their hands and lets her pull him up with her for the second, aerial portion of the dance.

This part is faster than the first floor work section; a series of darting movements in and out and around each other, the blades of their swords meeting in a series of quick, precise figures.

Bog never cared particularly for sword dancing, before Marianne. He’d never really seen the point of it, had always felt that if you wanted to risk life and limb against someone with a weapon in their hand, you might as well just fight them and have done with it.

He fully understands the appeal, now.

Marianne with a weapon in her hand is always stunning; she looks always looks magnificent when she’s fighting. But like this?

Marianne dances like she is a weapon, beautifully made and dangerous and sharp, like she would cut you if you held her wrong.

Bog catches her hand, the two of them facing each other in the air, now, close together, their blades clashing together over their heads. Marianne’s eyes are bright, her face flushed. They keep their blades locked together, their hands joined, as they spiral downwards towards the floor again for the final portion of the dance.

As soon as her feet touch the ground, Marianne furls her wings and spins away, bringing her sword down into the next stance.

She hits it perfectly.

This part of the dance begins slowly, the two of them circling each other, swords moving in patterns of long, deliberate motions. Gradually the circle tightens, until they meet with a lingering press of hands.

Marianne is incandescent, Bog thinks; lit up now with with a kind of inner light.

The music changes and they whirl away from each other, moving faster, now, feet weaving and swords spinning as they circle each other once more, the final pattern in the dance. A step inwards, tightening the circle, and they switch their swords to their left hands, the blades still spinning, feet still moving as they circle, even faster now. One more step, bringing them close again, their hands and feet moving in tandem as they change swords with each other and then—

Their blades clash together over their heads, the final pose of the dance, leaving them both panting and looking into each other’s eyes.

Bog only remembers that they have an audience when the crowd begins to clap.

The sound of it must catch Marianne off guard, too, because she flinches, almost imperceptibly, wings fluttering slightly like she wants to snap them out defensively. She steps back from Bog quickly, lowering the sword in her hand. Bog does the same, more slowly.

“That was well done!” his mother calls, voice ringing out over the entire ballroom. “Don’t the two of them look so good together?”

Marianne’s flinch this time is even more obvious and Bog’s heart clenches in his chest.

The band begins a different tune, and more dancers move out onto the floor, laughing and talking over the sound of the music. Thang is at Bog’s elbow again, taking Marianne’s sword from his hand; Bog sees Marianne hand his sword to Stuff.

Marianne’s cheeks are still flushed from the exertion of the dance, but she looks white around the lips, and she holds her shoulders in a tense line. Bog takes a step towards her and she takes two skittish steps backwards. Bog stops.

“Marianne—” he says.

“—I need water,” she says, flashing him a quick smile that is more a grimace.

“I—ah—I can get it for—”

“No!” she says, the word coming out too fast and forceful. She must notice this, because she gives an unconvincing laugh. “No,” she says, “No, I’ll get it myself—”

“Marianne—”

She gives him another grimace that’s meant as a smile and turns swiftly away from him, walks quickly away and into the crowd, leaving Bog alone on the dance floor.

Bog watches her for a moment, and then he swallows, and moves away in the other direction, giving her the space that she so clearly desires from him.

Whether she actually gets a drink, or whether her thirst was solely an excuse she invented to get away from him, Bog doesn’t know. He stays on the other side of the ballroom from her, and so only catches sight of her in glimpses, the color of her dress, the curve of one shoulder and her face in profile as she speaks to her sister.

Bog doesn’t see the moment that Marianne leaves the ballroom, only notices that she is no longer there, that he no longer catches sight of her in little flashes seen across the expanse of the room, between the shifting crowd of dancers that separate them. He spends several minutes looking across the dance floor for her, before he decides that she really is gone.

He spends several long minutes after that staring unseeingly at the dancers. Bog tells himself that he’s giving her time to regain her equilibrium, that he doesn’t want to strain her nerves by following her immediately.

Deep down, though, he knows he’s also avoiding it for his own sake.

Bog doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to follow Marianne and speak to her, at long last, about their divorce. He’s never wanted to avoid something so much in his life. He wants—

 _If you love her_ , he tells himself rather savagely, _then this isn’t really about what you want._

He closes his eyes for a moment, just a moment more, pictures her—Marianne as she looked turning away from him tonight, anguished and pale—Marianne on their wedding day, fire in her eyes as she snapped out her wings in challenge—Marianne sitting at her dressing table, looking small and tired and unhappy—

Bog doesn’t want to make her look like that any more. He never wants to make her look like that again.

He opens his eyes.

The dark forest musicians are playing an exceptionally lively tune; his mother is out on the dance floor with Dawn and Sunny, all of them laughing, and the rest of the goblins present appear to be attempting to teach the fairy court how this particular dance goes, to much general merriment.

Nobody notices when he slips out of the ballroom.

The music and the laughter fades away into the distance as Bog walks down the darkened corridors of the palace, headed towards Marianne’s rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to read and comment! I very much appreciate and enjoy reading your messages!


	16. Chapter 16

Marianne stands in front of her bedroom window, looking out. She twists her signet ring with the royal seal on her finger. Roland, evidently, hadn’t actually stolen it; the ring had been in the drawer of her dressing table when she looked there. She’ll have to start wearing it from now on, she supposes. And tomorrow, she’ll need to make some sort of official proclamation about Roland. And start the process of overhauling the royal guard. And—

It’s stopped raining, Marianne notes dully. The moon is bright overhead, bright as it shines through her window, bright as it filters through the curtains and pools on the floor.

The two scrolls that Bog brought to her room are still on the top of her dressing table. She could not bring herself to read them.

Bog had been—

Marianne draws her wings in a little closer.

Kind.

He’d been kind to her, giving her that last dance. He had to have known how badly she wanted it.

She’d almost been able to forget, while they were dancing, that it was an ending. She _had_ forgotten that the two of them were not alone, hadn’t been performing for their audience at all, had been dancing only for him. The sword dance was intricate—dangerous, if done incorrectly, requiring the full focus of both dancers. Having his entire attention had been intoxicating.

She’d thrown everything she had into that dance, half convinced that if she just managed to do it perfectly for him, if she just made him _see_ her, really _see her_ , then she might have a chance of making him want to stay with her after all.

And then the dance had ended and reality had intruded, the sound of their audience clapping, of Bog’s mother saying that the two of them looked well together and—

Marianne really had felt _seen_ , then, terribly so, had felt stripped naked, her heart raw and wounded and then he had been kind to her again and she’d found she could not bear it.

The night is warm again, after the rain, but Marianne feels cold, a cold that seems to radiate out from her heart through her entire body.

She is nearly certain that he’ll come to her room tonight. He’ll be wanting to get this over with.

Marianne looks down at the moonlight on her bedroom floor. It would have been easier to bear, she thinks, if she had hated him, the way she had been so sure she would, on their wedding day. Being married to a man she hated would have been easier to bear than being married to a man she loves who does not love her back.

A knock on her bedroom door makes Marianne’s heart leap to her throat.

“Come in,” she says without turning.

The sound of the door opening—of it closing once more.

“—Marianne?” Bog says, his voice low.

Marianne swallows the tears that want to rise.

She should turn now, she knows. Should turn around and be sensible and practical and reasonable. Should give in gracefully.

Oh, but she will never be able to forgive herself if she does not try, one last time, will never be able to live with herself unless she knows that she did everything she could to make him want her.

Marianne takes a shaky breath, and then, slowly, deliberately, she raises her head—

And unfurls her wings.

Bog, standing just inside Marianne’s room, watches her wings unfurl, sees the light of the moon through the window catch them, making them almost seem to glow.

She’s still in her violet dress, and the pearl necklace that hangs between her wings looks as if it is made of a moonbeam, white and cool and luminous against the deep purple petals of her gown.

She is too beautiful, he thinks despairingly. Too beautiful for something like him to ever touch. Does she know how beautiful she is, holding herself like that? Does she know how much he wants her?

Surely, she must not. Marianne would never tease him deliberately, if she knew. She would never be that needlessly cruel to him.

“It’s—me,” he manages to say. “I—I came to talk to you.”

Marianne stays poised like that for a moment longer, her head up, her wings unfurled in the moonlight, and then she turns, folding her wings in slowly.

“—of—of course,” she says. “Of course.”

It’s difficult to Bog to walk to her dressing table, to pick up the scrolls; each movement feels jerky and unnatural to him, as if his body is a marionette and he’s hovering above it, yanking unskillfully at the strings to get it to move.

“—I told you” he says, and his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, “that the laws of the Dark Forest don’t require any—legal documents—for a—for a divorce. But I thought that—havin’ the contracts might—make it seem more—official.”

“—of course,” Marianne says again.

She crosses slowly to the dressing table, to Bog. There’s a strange kind of inevitability to the movement, Marianne thinks, as if she’s caught in a nightmare, forced to play out the dream no matter how badly she wishes to escape.

“There’s ink and a pen in the top left drawer,” she hears herself say.

Bog looks at her for a moment, and then he looks away and he places the scrolls down on the top of the dressing table again. He opens the cabinet door and pulls out the drawer, takes out the ink and the pen. Everything seems to be happening terribly slowly and yet too fast at the same time.

He puts the pen and the ink down on the dressing table, doesn’t look at Marianne again.

“There are—there are two scrolls,” he says, and Marianne, hearing the strain in his voice, realizes how badly he must feel about doing this, how uncomfortable he feels having to hurt her in this way. “Two scrolls,” he says again, “two—different contracts. For you to choose from.”

Marianne feels herself nod her head.

“I see,” she says. “What’s—what’s the difference between them?”

“Ah—this—this one,” Bog says, unrolling the first piece of parchment, “this one—divides the land into two kingdoms again—yours and mine. Separate—separate governments. And this—” He unrolls the second piece of parchment, “—this one keeps the kingdom united, keeps—the two of us as joint rulers. King and queen, just as we are, now. Just not—just not married to each other anymore.”

Bog stares down at the parchment, knowing he won’t be able to get through this if he’s looking at Marianne.

“Like I said,” he manages to force the words out, “it’s your choice which one you want.”

“The second one, of course,” he hears Marianne say, and he does look up at her, then.

She looks paler than ever in the moonlight as she reaches for the pen. Her fingers close on it and she picks it up, dips the sharp point of it into the inkwell.

Looking down at the parchment instead of at him, she places the tip of the pen to the paper and signs her name on the bottom of the second contract.

Marianne looks up at Bog and holds the pen out to him. He reaches out to take it from her and their fingers brush. She freezes when he touches her, and Bog finds that he has frozen as well, that he cannot look away from her, cannot force himself to pull the pen from her hand.

“You—you didn’t read it,” he says blankly.

“I—” Marianne swallows.

(she should take her hand away, now, she thinks. she should take her hand off the pen. she does not.)

“I—trust you,” she says.

And then she does let go of the pen, quickly, as if it has burned her fingers. She steps back and turns half away from him, fingertips of one hand placed on the top of the dressing table as if for balance, her face averted from his.

Bog still holds the pen in midair, his eyes on the curve of her cheek and the sweep of her lashes—the only parts of her face that he can see.

_I trust you._

Coming from Marianne, that’s—

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Marianne’s breath hisses through clenched teeth.

She cannot do this. She cannot do this.

Marianne presses her lips together, curls her free hand into a fist, tight enough that her nails bite into her palm.

She will do this. She has to.

“The details—” Bog swallows, “the details of this one—the two of us remain co-rulers, with equal power. And—the eventual heir to the throne will—be your eldest child.”

Marianne crosses to the window again without looking at him, stands at it, looking out.

“That part will have to be changed,” she says.

Bog blinks.

“Changed?”

“I don’t intend to have children,” Marianne says, still with her back towards him.

Bog frowns. She doesn’t—? Does the man she’s in love with not want children?

Or—perhaps it’s a woman that Marianne is in love with?

“It wouldna’ need to be a biological child,” he says, “If you and—your spouse should wish to adopt instead—“

“I don’t intend to marry,” Marianne says.

Bog stares at her, at the tense line of her shoulders and closely furled wings, at the moonlight in her hair. What—

What can she mean; she doesn’t intend to marry?

“Besides,” she says, turning her head just slightly over one shoulder, so that he sees her face in profile, “I’m sure— _she’ll_ —wish for your child to eventually inherit.”

“Have you—I mean, I really think that’s something you two should have a conversation about, Marianne,” Bog says.

Marianne turns her head to look out the window again, twists her fingers together tightly, hands pressed hard to her body just below her breastbone, feeling as if she’s trying to hold herself together with the pressure of her hands.

Of course. Of course Bog wants her and his new wife to talk, to be cordial; he probably wants them to be friends.

Marianne presses her hands to her chest a little harder, resisting the urge to claw at it instead, to try to tear her out her heart.

_Friends._

“Yes,” she forces herself to say. “Yes, of course I’ll talk to her. And naturally you’ll want to speak to her about it as well.”

Bog clutches the pen in his hand, closes his eyes for a moment.

Marianne wants him to speak to the woman she’s in love with. And he’ll need to, won’t he? He and Marianne are going to be ruling together for the rest of their lives; he’s going to have to know this woman Marianne loves.

“I can do that, yes,” he says, opening his eyes, looking at Marianne again. “But—Marianne, why do you say you don’t—does—?”

Does this woman not want to marry Marianne? That thought seems absolutely impossible to Bog. Unless—

“You do remember,” he says, “that we abolished that—law of the Fairy Kingdom sayin’ that a woman cannae’ marry a woman and a man cannae’ marry a man…?”

Marianne frowns, half turns towards Bog. What would that law have to do with anything?

Bog is standing at her dressing table, still, pen in hand, looking deeply uncomfortable. Why—

—oh.

Marianne does a quick mental review of their conversation. No, Bog hadn’t ever actually said “she” when talking about the person he intended to marry; that had only been Marianne who said that, who assumed that.

“Oh,” Marianne says, “I—yes. Of—well, as you say, the child wouldn’t have to be biological.”

“…right,” Bog says. “So, we’ll—ah—leave that part of the contract as it is, then?”

Marianne frowns.

“What? No. I told you, I don’t intend to adopt.”

Bog, frowning, too, looks about as frustratedly confused as Marianne feels, now.

“Don’t they want children?” he asks, with a sharp gesture of the hand holding the pen.

“What? Who?” Marianne says, truly baffled now.

Bog gives her a look like he fears she may have lost her senses.

“…whoever it is you’re going to be marryin’, Marianne,” he says slowly.

“I’m not going to marry again,” Marianne says forcefully, with a slashing gesture of her hand. “Why do you keep insisting that I’m going to be getting married again?”

“Because you’re in—” Bog gestures with two hands, his wings giving a suppressed agitated flutter, “—the potion—tonight—the potion didn’t work on you!”

“No, of course not,” Marianne snaps.

“What do you mean, of course not?” Bog says, sounding bewildered.

“Of course not, because—” Marianne cuts herself off abruptly and gestures angrily at him.

Bog looks at her blankly and Marianne growls under her breath in frustration.

“ _You_ ,” she spits out, “The potion didn’t work because of _you_.”

Bog feels his heart drop horribly. Of course. Of course the potion didn’t work on her, not when she was looking at him; he’s far too—

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “no, that’s not—you heard the Sugar Plum Fairy tonight. Before, when I tried to use the potion and it didn’t work for me, it wasna’ because—” he swallows, steels himself. “—it wasna’ because I’m—too hideous to love, it was because—”

“Who the hell told you that you’re too hideous to love?” Marianne demands, her wings snapping out, her hands curled into fists and her eyes blazing

Bog blinks at her, unable to fathom why she looks so angry.

“…no one told me,” he says, “I did not need to be told. I’ve got eyes, Marianne. But that’s not why the potion didn’t work for me. And—and, besides, you said Roland tried dusting you before, and the potion didn’t work on you that time either, so I don’t understand what—”

“It didn’t work because of _you_ , Bog,” Marianne snarls. “Both times. _The potion didn’t work on me because_ _I’m in love with you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting!


	17. Chapter 17

_“What?”_ Bog says.

Marianne gives a sharp, stiff gesture of her shoulders as she folds her arms and folds in her wings, half turning away from him.

“Yes, well,” she says, tone somewhere in between flat and bitter. “I’m sorry if this makes things awkward between us.”

“Ah?” Bog says faintly. His head is spinning and he can’t seem to take a full breath or come up with actual words.

“I did try,” Marianne says, still not looking at him, “to avoid saying it out loud, so that you could keep on pretending you didn’t know.”

“…pretending?” Bog manages to say in a strangled tone.

Marianne goes very still, and then slowly turns to face him again, her eyes wide and horrified.

“You—you didn’t know?” she says.

Bog shakes his head mutely. The color drains from Marianne’s face.

“Fuck,” she says in a very small voice. “Oh, no—I—Bog, I really am sorry. I promise, though, I promise I’m not going to try to come between the two of you—”

“Wh—the two of who?” Bog asks, still reeling from the shock of hearing Marianne say that she’s in love with him; she said that; she said that she’s in love with him; absolutely nothing about this entire conversation makes any kind of sense—

“Between you and whoever it is that you’re in love with,” Marianne says, and he can tell that she’s fighting to keep her tone even, can see her digging her fingernails into her own palms, “between you and whoever it is that you’re planning to marry.”

Bog stares at her.

“…whoever it is that I—?” he shakes his head, trying to clear it.

Marianne presses her lips together, her wings giving a repressed flutter.

“Well, it’s not as if I don’t know,” she says, an edge to her voice now. “I’m not stupid, Bog. And besides, the potion didn’t work on you either.”

“No,” Bog says, “no, of course it didn’t.”

Marianne gestures at him, sharp and one-handed, her other arm curled around her ribs, as though they’re broken.

“Exactly,” she says, “because you’re in love with someone else. Like I said, it’s not as if I don’t—”

“There is no one else.”

Marianne goes still again.

“There’s no one but you, Marianne,” Bog says with complete and utter truth, and how could Marianne not know that?

Marianne still stares at him, color leaving her face, leaving something bleak and anguished behind.

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, no. The potion did work on you.”

Bog chokes on a slightly hysterical laugh. How can Marianne possibly think that he’s not actually in love with her? How can she think that?

“—I was in love with you well before tonight, Marianne,” he says. “I’ve been in love with you since the end of last summer.”

Marianne’s lips part, and he can see in her eyes how much she wants to believe him, can see the way she’s torn between despair and hope.

“The day you started wearin’ your sword,” Bog says, “that was the day I figured it out.”

Marianne doesn’t move still, but he can see tears rising in her eyes. She looks—

—Bog has seen Marianne look many things, but he’s never seen her look fragile, before, as though a single wrong word from him might make her disappear like ashes blown on the wind. He doesn’t like it; Marianne should never have to look like that.

“Why?” she whispers.

“…why am I in love with you?” Bog says.

He stares at Marianne incredulously.

“Marianne, you’re incredible,” he says. “You’re so clever and passionate and— beautiful and strong and—and brave—I have never met anyone as brave as you, Marianne. The first time I saw you, tough girl, when you were wearin’ that damned primrose dress and lookin’ at me like you wanted to eat my heart; you were so brave, Marianne. And—seeing you, it was—”

Bog runs a hand over his face, searching for the right words, trying to explain.

“For so long,” he says, “for so long, I’d felt—it was like the world was—dull and colorless and lifeless. Like there was nothin’ left for me but duties and obligations.”

He smiles at Marianne, who is still staring at him with tears standing in her eyes.

“And then—you happened to me,” he says. “And all of a sudden life was interesting again. And fun. Talkin’ with you during the wedding banquet, sparring with you that night—do you have any idea how long it had been since I had fun, Marianne?”

“—me, too,” she whispers. “It—it had been—so long.”

“Marianne, being married to you is an adventure,” Bog says. “And I love you.”

Marianne swallows visibly and blinks hard, the tears in her eyes spilling over.

“So—so why are we getting a divorce?” she asks in a small, fragile voice.

Bog gives a choked laugh.

“I have no idea,” he says.

Marianne makes a sound that’s almost laughter, and Bog smiles at her, starts to take a step towards her—

—and then she draws back, happiness disappearing from her expression.

“Marianne—” Bog says reaching out for her.

She shakes her head, arms wrapped protectively around herself, her steps quick and skittish as she backs up nearly to the window. Bog lowers his hand slowly.

“No,” she says. “No, it’s not—it’s not real; you said—you said that marrying me was a mistake; you said you regretted it; you said you shouldn’t have done it—”

“—I shouldn’t have made you marry me,” Bog says. “I meant—Marianne, I meant that I shouldn’t have forced you to do it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t—honestly, I don’t understand how you can be in love with me, Marianne, how you can—you forgivin’ me—if you really had led a coup against me, that would have been more what I deserved.”

“I thought about it,” Marianne says, mouth twisted bitterly, bringing her arms down, her hands curled into fists at her sides, taking several more quick steps backwards. “I didn’t do it, but I thought about it.”

Bog makes a noise of interest.

“Did you?” he says. “Marianne, love, if you step back any further, I think you may fall out that window. I’m not gonna come any closer unless you ask me to; you don’t need to worry.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this!” Marianne snarls, but she finally stops backing away, so Bog counts it as a victory. “How can you be so calm about me saying I considered trying to overthrow you?”

“Well, I figured you might have,” Bog says, shrugging. “I mean, when I threw down my sword tonight, I was rather under the impression that I was surrendering to you.”

“Then why did you believe me when I said that I didn’t do it?” Marianne demands, face white and furious.

“I believed you because you said you didn’t do it,” Bog says. “And you were clearly—you stepped in front of me, Marianne. Like you were protecting me. Nobody’s ever—”

“How can you stand there,” Marianne says, “how can you stand there and say you’re not under a love potion, when you—”

“The love potion came after that, remember,” Bog says gently.

Marianne stops, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her breathing ragged.

“I’m not surprised that you considered overthrowing me,” Bog says. “All I’m really wondering is why you didn’t do it.”

“Because I fell in love with you,” Marianne says rather viciously. “I fell in love with you and I decided that keeping you safe was more important than the probable risk of you declaring that our marriage was unconsummated and setting me aside.”

Bog stares at her.

“…declaring what?” he says.

“That the marriage is unconsummated!” Marianne says, and then gestures between the two of them, two handed and a bit wild. “Unconsummated! As in—”

“I know what unconsummated means!” Bog says, feeling heat rush to his face. “I don’t—I—what does that have to do with anything?”

Marianne goes still.

“Is—non-consummation—not grounds—for annulment in the dark forest?” she asks.

“What? No!” Bog says. “What are you—no! Why—no! No, of course not!”

Marianne sits down hard on the window seat, laughing in a slightly hysterical way.

“Of course not!” she says. “Of course not! Months! I worried for months! And it’s not—it’s not even a law in the dark forest!”

“Of course it’s not a law!” Bog says.

“And—we stopped going through the laws before we could get to that one!” Marianne says on the edge of a giggle, eyes closed, clearly still struggling to suppress her laughter.

“Why would that ever be a law?” Bog says, deeply appalled. “What kind of—

Marianne opens her eyes and looks at his face and bursts again into laughter.

“Y-your face!” she manages to say, “you look—so scandalized!”

“It—it is no one’s business what a married couple does or does not get up to in the privacy of their own bedchamber!” Bog says, face burning.

Marianne laughs even harder at that, and Bog feels his own lips twitch in response. Finally he has to laugh as well.

At last, Marianne’s laughter begins to taper off. Bog rubs a hand ruefully down his face, shaking his head.

“I had no idea, Marianne,” Bog says. “I had no idea you’d be afraid of—somethin’ like that. If I’d known, I would have—” he stops, feeling himself flush, and gestures in embarrassed confusion. “I—ah—I would have—explained,” he finishes quickly. “I would have explained.”

Marianne, still collapsed on the window seat, swallows and looks away from him, looks down at her lap, her laughter suddenly gone.

“Of course,” she says, “of course you—would have—explained.”

A tense kind of silence falls between them. Finally Bog swallows and breaks it.

“Do—do you believe me, now, Marianne?” he asks.

She looks up at him, the moonlight in her hair, and Bog’s breath catches. She’s so—

“I love you,” he says. “And it’s not because of any potion. If it had been because of the potion, you’d be able to tell, Marianne. I would have started acting different right away; you would have noticed.”

She does not answer for a long moment, is silent, just looking at him.

“I’m not acting any different, am I, Marianne,” he says gently, a statement, not a question.

Marianne swallows visibly.

“No,” she says, drawing her knees up, her back against the column that stands between two of the windows. She wraps her arms around her legs, pulls them into her chest. “No, you’re not acting any different; you’re always like this. You’re always—”

She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

“—I don’t understand,” she says, and she sounds almost angry now, “I don’t understand why you’re always so much kinder than I expect.”

“Well, considerin’ the circumstances of our first meeting,” Bog says, “I don’t expect you had very high expectations of my character.”

Marianne makes a sound that’s almost laughter, reaches up with one hand to wipe her tears from her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” Bog says quietly, watching her.

She stops, and looks at him, head tilted at a questioning kind of angle.

“I’m so sorry that I did that to you,” Bog says. “I could never regret being your husband, Marianne, but—I very much regret the way I did it. Insisting on it; not asking you. I was—it was so wrong for me to do that. It was—it was like trying to use the love potion. I didn’t realize, at the time, how very wrong it was. But I do, now, Marianne. And I am so very sorry.”

Marianne stares at him for a long moment, very still and beautiful in the moonlight.

“Do you have any idea,” she says, finally, her voice trembling, “how much I love you for saying that?”

“…that I’m sorry?” Bog asks.

Marianne makes a sound that’s half laugh and half sob.

“Yes,” she says, “yes, and—and that you—that you understand. I tried, this morning, I tried to explain to my father—I tried to explain why I was angry with him; I tried to explain that—that I didn’t regret being married to you; I don’t regret being married to you; I just wish it hadn’t happened without my permission. And he didn’t—he didn’t understand. And so—so you saying that you—that you understand and that you’re sorry—that is—”

Her voice breaks, and she cuts herself off, gesturing wordlessly at him.

“Marianne—” Bog swallows down the lump in his throat.

She smiles at him through her tears and Bog feels his own eyes burn.

And—and all at once he realizes—

Bog turns to Marianne’s dressing table, to the contract that already has her signature on it.

The pen is still in his hand.

Quickly, before he loses his nerve, he scrawls his name beside her.

He drops the pen and looks up at Marianne. An expression of hurt confusion is just beginning appear in her eyes.

“Marianne, will you marry me?” Bog asks.

And, oh, the expression of joy that dawns on Marianne’s face then is absolutely radiant. It takes his breath away. She takes his breath away.

_“Yes,”_ Marianne says. “Yes, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> You are all so lovely for continuing to read and comment!


	18. Chapter 18

Marianne watches Bog’s face light up with joy at her answer.

She’s—she’s never seen him look so happy before, and he’s looking at her; she’s the one who made him look like that; he’s looking at her like that because he loves her.

Bog _loves her._

“Is it all right if I come over to you, now?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly.

Bog drops the pen on her dressing table and crosses the room to stand in front of her. Marianne looks up at him from her place on the window seat.

She feels transfixed by his gaze, unable to move, unable to catch her breath. Bog reaches out a hand and gently, so gently, touches her face with his fingertips. Marianne takes a shuddering kind of breath and tilts her head, leaning into the touch, her eyes slipping closed.

“Can I kiss you, Marianne?”

Marianne opens her eyes. Bog is looking down at her with an expression in his eyes that’s almost familiar—a kind of intense focus that reminds her of how he looks at her sometimes, when they fight—but there’s something different in his eyes this time, too, something that makes heat rise to her face, makes her stomach flutter.

(his hand is on her face, still, and when he rubs his thumb over her cheekbone, a shivery thrill goes all through Marianne’s body)

“Yes,” she whispers, “please, yes.”

She tips her face up as Bog leans down and brushes his lips over hers.

And it is just a brush of the lips, at first, and then another, light and gentle, his hand still cradling her face. He kisses her like she’s delicate and precious, like he’s trying to be careful with her, and it’s wonderful and it’s maddening because Marianne doesn’t want careful, Marianne wants—

She hears herself make a quiet, frustrated sound, and she reaches up to grab the collar of Bog’s robes, using her grip on it to pull herself up as she presses up into the kiss. Bog’s hand on her face slides back into her hair, and his other arm goes around her waist, pulling her up from the window seat, pulling her close as he kisses her harder, a hint of sharp teeth beneath the press of his lips, now. Marianne hears herself make another soft noise, and she parts her lips for him as he licks into her mouth.

Her knees go weak, but that’s all right because she’s already on tiptoe and Bog’s supporting most of her weight anyway.

The kiss is wonderful and the kiss is glorious and the kiss is still not enough; Marianne wants more, more of his mouth on hers and his hands in her hair, more of everything. Bog’s hand slips down from her hair to the back of her neck, and he holds her there as he kisses her. Marianne shivers, wanting him to slide his hand lower, over the pearl strand to the center of her back.

Bog strokes his thumb over her pulse point and a jolt of desire goes straight through her at the sensation. It distracts her from the kiss, makes her lose her concentration, and Bog eases the kiss into something more gentle and slow again, then pulls away out of it to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her hair. Marianne pants for breath and clings to him.

He kisses the sensitive tip of her ear and Marianne gasps. Bog hesitates for half a moment, holding himself still, and then he strokes his thumb down the side of her neck, loosening his hold, leaning back a little to look into her face. His thumb reaches the strand of pearls that rests at the base of her throat and stops there, touching the pearls instead of her skin, now.

“That,” he says, his voice rougher that it usually is, “that was a—much more enthusiastic reaction that I was expectin’.”

He’s moving his hand absently as he speaks, his thumb rolling one of the pearls back and forth over her skin and the sensation of that is so distracting that it takes Marianne a moment to understand what he’s said.

She shifts slightly in his arms, arching her back, so that his thumb slips down over the pearls to rest on her clavicle instead.

“I— _ah_ —” she says, “—I kind of thought it was—really painfully obvious, how much I want you.”

Bog’s eyes widen, like he’s surprised by that statement. Marianne looks up at him incredulously.

“Seriously, you didn’t—? Kissing your hand, asking you to help me with my necklace, begging you to keep dancing with me?” Marianne says. “You didn’t—?”

“…I really didn’t,” Bog says, sounding a bit dazed. “That—was that really what—all of that—was about?”

“Yes!” Marianne says. “I can’t believe you didn’t—I was _throwing_ myself at you and you—”

She stops, biting her lip, dropping her eyes to look at the leather of Bog’s collar.

“—you didn’t even notice,” she finishes, hating the way her voice wavers.

“I noticed,” Bog says, stroking his thumb across the line of her collarbone in a way that seems intended as soothing. “Of course I noticed, I just didn’t—I just didn’t understand.”

She risks a glance up at him; he’s looking down at her with an expression so gentle that she can feel tears wanting to rise up in her eyes.

“I spread my wings in front of you just now,” she says, and that stupid waver is still in her voice. “Didn’t that—didn’t that affect you at all?”

“Wait, was that on purpose?” Bog says, sounding shocked. “Did you—was it _meant_ to make me want you when you did that?”

“Of course I meant it like that!” Marianne says. “What else could it possibly mean?”

“I didn’t think it meant anything,” Bog says.

Marianne blinks, then frowns up at him.

“…is spreading your wings like that…not always a particularly blatant kind of flirtation,” she asks slowly, “in goblin society?”

“What?” Bog says, sounding shocked.

“But! But you were uncomfortable, earlier!” Marianne says. “When I was putting on your robes and I asked you to spread your wings you were—”

“Well, yes, but that’s because—” Bog hesitates a moment, and Marianne can see a slight flush creeping up over his cheekbones. “—the space between my wings happens to be—ah—extremely sensitive and—”

Marianne stares at him.

“Yes,” she says. “Obviously. That’s how wings—how do you not—?”

She closes her eyes, then leans forward to press her forehead to his chest.

“This is another one of those things, isn’t it,” she says, “it’s another one of those completely-didn’t-realize-it things, like with the singing. And the—the consummation.”

“—goblins don’t really tend towards havin’ wings, for the most part,” Bog says. “And the ones that do have them don’t really tend to look like—”

“— _us,_ ” Marianne says, at the exact moment that Bog says, “— _me._ ”

She makes a sound that’s half laughter and half groan and looks up at him again.

“And so of course you didn’t understand the gesture,” she says, and shakes her head ruefully. “I think we need to make a fairy-to-goblin etiquette guide, after we finish with the law codes.”

“I really thought the wing thing was just me,” Bog says.

“Really, really not just you,” Marianne says. “Really definitely extremely not just you.”

“Wait,” Bog says, eyes going wide, “wait, so when you asked me to put that necklace on you—?”

Marianne gives an awkward laugh.

“Yeah, now you’re getting it,” she says.

“Oh. Oh—and the wings, earlier—?”

“Yes,” Marianne says. “Really. Really blatant.”

She drops her gaze to his collar once more, runs her thumbnail over some stitching in the leather.

“Um,” she says, “so—did it? Affect you at all, I mean?”

Bog gives a low, dark chuckle, strokes over her clavicle again, this time with a bit more pressure.

“Oh, trust me, Marianne,” he says, “I was very affected.”

Marianne swallows, feeling herself blush, a thrill of desire and pleasure going through her at the tone of his voice.

“You are so incredibly beautiful, Marianne,” he says.

“—do you really think so?” she asks, feeling shy. “I mean, I know I’m not—I know I don’t look—anything like a goblin…”

“To be honest,” Bog says, “fairies have always been just as attractive as goblins, to me.”

“Really?” Marianne asks.

Bog makes a noise of affirmation, drawing a clawed fingertip gently over the string of pearls on her throat, the motion making a soft clicking sound as his claw hits each pearl.

“I’ve always sort of wondered,” he says absently, his eyes on her throat, “if it was because I had fairy blood. I figure it’s probably just me, though. Gender’s never really seemed to make a difference for me, either; I think I just have—wildly varying tastes.”

Marianne laughs quietly in relief, and Bog looks up at her face again and grins at her. His thumb strokes over her pulse point and Marianne shivers and presses closer to him. He makes a quiet, surprised noise at her reaction.

“You actually are attracted to me,” he murmurs, reaching up to stroke her hair. “You really must be in love with me.”

Marianne arches her neck as he tucks her hair behind her ear.

“I— _ah_ —I was definitely attracted to you before I was in love with you,” she says.

Bog, trailing his hand over her jaw, stops.

“What?” he asks, letting go of her and stepping back. “Before that? How?”

“Because you’re attractive!” Marianne says, her face hot. “You’re all—” She waves a hand at him.

Bog looks at her as if he fears for her sanity.

“I know,” he says. “I’m not—attractive by anybody’s standards. Goblin or fairy. I know what I look like, Marianne.”

“I am really beginning to think that you don’t,” she says, scowling at him. “You are definitely attractive; I don’t know what you’re—”

“I’ve seen the kind of thing you find attractive, Marianne,” Bog says flatly, “I don’t exactly fit the profile.”

Marianne makes a face.

“Roland isn’t—” she says, gesturing, frustration and nerves making the movements of her hands sharp and quick. “Roland really isn’t representative of—I don’t really have a—a type. It’s like—it’s like you were saying, with the—the varying tastes thing, I mean—different people are attractive in different ways.”

She stops, sure that she’s explaining herself badly. Bog tilts his head at her curiously.

“I mean, with Roland,” Marianne says, the words coming too fast, “it was the way he looked like some kind of—story book illustration, but before that, there was Helen, and she had gorgeous curves, and Saffron had hair the color of autumn leaves, and Terrance was an elf with beautiful freckles, so—”

She manages to stop herself, and looks at Bog uncertainly. That was—definitely not romantic, Marianne; why did you have to start talking about people you used to have crushes on?

Bog doesn’t seem annoyed, though; he’s just standing there, very still, his eyes fixed on her face.

“…and—me?” he asks, slowly.

“You’re—” Marianne swallows, “— _powerful_. You have this—you’re so _tall_ , and you’re so _strong_ , but not in a way that makes me feel like I’m not allowed to be strong, too, and your body has all of these—fascinating ridges and textures, and your cheekbones are really just unfair, and your eyes are unreasonably beautiful, and how you can possibly think that you’re not attractive is absolutely beyond me, Bog.”

Bog is still staring at her, looking shocked now, a faint flush creeping over his (seriously, just unfair) cheekbones.

“I—” he says uncertainly, “—and when—when did you start thinkin’ that way about me?”

Marianne makes an embarrassed face.

“About halfway through our first sparring match,” she says.

Bog’s jaw actually drops.

“You’re havin’ me on,” he says.

“It was awful!” Marianne bursts out. “I was—I hated you, and you kept being attractive at me, with the _smirking_ and the _laughing_ and the way that you _move!_ I was so mad about it!”

“You—?” Bog says.

“Yes,” Marianne says, covering her face with her hands.

“Really?”

 _“Yes,”_ she says, looking at him again, her hands on her cheeks now.

Bog’s face breaks slowly into an incredulous, amazed smile.

“You wanted me _then?_ ” he says.

“To my extreme dismay,” Marianne says.

Bog laughs and takes a step towards her, bending down to kiss her again, one hand on her waist, holding her close, the other on her jaw, tipping her face up. Marianne presses up into the kiss, her hands on his shoulders.

This kiss doesn’t start off anything like careful; it’s—he’s smiling as he kisses her, and there’s nothing but surety and desire in the way he’s holding her, in the press of his lips against hers.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t let her go, just looks down at her, his lips still curved into a smile and his eyes dark.

“And you want me now,” he says, and it’s a statement, more than a question.

He rubs his thumb over her lower lip and Marianne gasps, lips parting.

“Very, very much,” she says breathlessly.

Bog’s smile widens and he tilts her face to the side, kisses her jaw.

“Would you like to help me out of these robes, then, Marianne?” he murmurs, his lips close to her ear.

Marianne shivers, and he laughs, low and satisfied, making her shiver again. He steps back from her, his hands sliding slowly from her face and her waist. Marianne’s hands move quickly to the laces beneath his left arm.

“I’ve been wanting to get you out of them ever since I helped you put them on,” she says, untying the knot and unlacing the panels.

Bog laughs again and Marianne glances up at him, biting her lip and smiling, before moving to unlace the panels beneath his right arm.

A light pressure on her head makes her look up again as she’s undoing the laces. Bog is touching her crown gently with two fingertips; he meets her gaze when she looks up.

“Let me take this off for you now, Marianne?” he asks.

Marianne nods, straightening up, and Bog takes the crown carefully from her head. Crown held in one hand, he runs the fingers of his free hand through her hair and bends down to kiss her. Breaking the kiss, he puts her crown gently on the window seat. Marianne smiles at him and he strokes his fingers down her arm, takes hold of her wrist, and lifts her hand to press a kiss to her palm. Marianne’s heart flutters at the gesture and he smiles at her, taking a step back and letting go of her wrist before turning slowly, so that his back is towards her.

And then he spreads his wings.

The moonlight dances silver across them, like starlight on water. Marianne’s breath catches, not just at how beautiful his wings are, but also at the fact that he knows what this means, now. He’s doing this on purpose.

He’s doing it for her.

She unlaces the back panels of his robes with trembling fingers, and then, just as she wanted to do when she helped him put the robes on, she reaches up to trace over the embroidery between his wings. Bog makes a noise of pleasure at that, so she puts her hand flat against his back and strokes her palm down the line of his spine, then stands on tiptoe to press a kiss between his wings.

Bog makes a sound that’s almost a rumbling growl, and turns to face her, furling his wings. Marianne reaches up for his collar, intending to pull it up and over his head.

“The flower, first,” he says.

Marianne blinks in surprise, but moves to unpin her ugly bouquet from his robes.

“Don’t crush it,” he says, “I want to keep it.”

Marianne laughs, fingers pausing momentarily in their work as she glances up at him.

“Keep it? Why?” she asks.

“I like it,” he says.

She looks at him incredulously.

“You made it for me,” Bog says.

Marianne’s heart gives a hard, almost painful twist.

“—oh,” she says, voice trembling a little.

Bog smiles at her and Marianne finishes unpinning the bouquet. He takes it from her, his hands careful, and places it gently on the window seat, inside the circle of her crown. Then he pulls the collar of his robes up and over his head, tosses them down carelessly on the window seat beside the crown and the flower.

And he’s—Bog is not any more undressed now than he usually is; Marianne probably shouldn’t feel so electric about seeing him like this, now, but her heart is beating faster and her breathing is coming quicker anyway.

He kisses her again, his hands in her hair, and Marianne feels almost overwhelmed by how close he is, by the way there’s nothing between the two of them now but the petals of her dress.

Bog kisses her jaw, then her neck and Marianne gasps for breath.

“Necklace,” he says in a low voice, hands sliding from her hair to her shoulders.

Marianne swallows and turns for him slowly.

Bog looks down at Marianne and touches a single fingertip to the clasp of her necklace. She actually shivers at that; he sees it. When he strokes his finger down the line of pearls that lies over her spine, her wings flutter slightly.

He moves both hands to the clasp again, and unfastens it. Holding the shorter end of the necklace in his left hand, he pulls the long string of pearls slowly up the line of her back, between her wings. He hears Marianne’s breathing pick up.

Bog takes the necklace from her throat and steps forward, so that her back and furled wings are pressed against him. He places his free hand on her waist and Marianne leans back against him. Bog reaches past her with his other hand to place her necklace carefully on the window seat, beside his flower, within the circle of her crown.

He straightens and strokes the backs of his fingers down her neck, then her shoulder and arm, until he reaches her hand. Marianne leans more of her weight back against him. Looking down at her face, he sees her eyelashes flutter, sees her lips part.

Bog laces his fingers with hers, his palm against the back of her hand, then lifts both their hands up together and kisses her wrist. Her pulse is racing; he can feel it beneath his lips. When he turns his head and presses his lips to the pulse point of her throat, he feels it again, hears Marianne take a sharp breath.

He kisses her ear and she takes another quick breath, and when he very carefully and very lightly bites her ear, she gasps and arches back against him, pushing the space between her wings, and the tops of her furled wings themselves, harder against his chest.

Bog’s breath catches.

She’s so—she’s incredibly responsive; every touch seems just seems to leave her wanting more. It’s amazing, really; it makes him feel invincible, being able to see so clearly how much she desires him.

Bog slides his hand from her hip over Mariannes waist, holding her tighter, and bites her ear again, a little harder this time. Marianne actually moans at that, moving restlessly in his arms, rubbing the tops of her wings and the space between them against his chest in small, desperate circles, the soft petals of her dress and the velvety texture of her wings over his body sending desire curling down his spine. He lets go of her hand to run his palm down her the side of her body, hand following the curves of her.

“Tell me how this dress unfastens,” he says, voice rough.

“It— _ah_ —it doesn’t—” Marianne says, panting for breath. “It doesn’t unfasten; it’s just—it’s sewn on. To get it off you have to—to cut it or—or tear it.”

Bog pauses, his hand on her waist.

“Really?” he says.

He reaches up and runs a clawed fingertip down the side of her neck, making her gasp.

“Tear it?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, “yes, I— _ohh_ —I think I’m—finally understanding the allure of this petal dress thing.”

Bog laughs.

“You’re the one who _started_ the fashion, Marianne,” he says.

“Only to annoy you,” she says breathlessly, pressing back against him.

Bog laughs again.

The column of her throat is distractingly gorgeous; it absolutely demands to be bitten. Marianne makes a soft sound, arching her neck, and Bog does bite her. He’s careful not to do it too hard, but Marianne moans and pushes up into the bite, pressing her skin harder against his teeth.

Bog turns the bite into a kiss, laughing again. He moves his hands to her shoulders, shaking his head.

“The claws and fangs are actually an attraction for you, aren’t they, tough girl,” he says.

Marianne shivers and turns to face him.

“You—you know they are,” she says.

“Yes,” Bog says, smiling wickedly at her.

Her gaze flicks down to his mouth and she swallows visibly, doesn’t seem to be able to drag her eyes away.

He kisses her, hard and with a hint of teeth and Marianne makes a soft noise of desire into the kiss. Bog ends it with a careful bite to her lower lip and she makes another of those beautiful little noises and clutches at him. He leans back to look at her.

“Yes, I can tell you like them,” he murmurs.

Marianne looks—her hair is wilder than usual from him running his hands through it; her face is flushed, her pupils are wide and black, and her lips are red and swollen with kissing.

From him kissing her, and thinking that really just makes him want to kiss her again, so he does. Still kissing her, he reaches up to place the tip of a claw at the collar of her dress.

Marianne breaks the kiss unexpectedly.

“Oh—” she says, “—wait, I should—”

She moves her hands from his shoulders and fumbles for her pocket, reaching inside and pulling out—

Bog blinks.

“I got it from Dawn, before I left,” Marianne says, talking a little fast, avoiding his eyes, fingers curled around the little stone bottle that he gave her.

“Why?” Bog asks, mystified.

Marianne glances up at him, blushing deeply.

She swallows.

“Because you gave it to me.”

Bog stares at her.

Because he gave it to her? It was just a stone bottle; it wasn’t special; it didn’t even have any headache cure potion in it any more; it—

“Was that—” Bog says slowly, “—was that why you had it with you tonight?”

Marianne bites her lip and nods, her expression deeply embarrassed, almost panicked, and something about the look on her face reminds him of—

“—wait, was that the thing you were holding yesterday?” Bog blurts out. “When I walked into your room? Was that the thing you didn’t want me to see?”

Marianne grimaces.

“So you did notice that,” she says.

“—I thought it was—” Bog shakes his head, trying to clear it. “I thought—I thought it had to be something from—whoever it was you were in love with—”

“It was,” Marianne mutters. “It was from you. Please don’t laugh.”

“I—I really don’t feel like laughing, Marianne,” Bog says. He touches the bottle wonderingly. “It was—it was this?”

Marianne gulps and nods, dropping her eyes.

“Have you really been carryin’ that around all this time, Marianne?” he asks.

“No,” she says, “that was just tonight. Before that, I kept it underneath my pillow, except for when—”

She stops abruptly, wincing, then looks up at him, her shoulders drawn in slightly, like she’s bracing herself for mockery or rejection.

“It—it really means that much to you?” Bog asks, his voice trembling on the edge between disbelief and hope.

Marianne’s expression—changes, at that, goes terribly open and unguarded, fear and hope mixed together in her eyes.

Without looking away from him, she lifts the bottle to her lips and kisses the mark on the bottom of it.

“ _You_ mean that much to me,” she says.

And Bog—Bog cannot answer; he’s far too shaken.

He feels—he feels as if she’s reached into his chest and placed her hand against his heart.

Marianne gulps and turns away to put the bottle down on the window seat beside the flower she gave him.

“I really love you a lot,” she says, voice small, her eyes avoiding his.

“—oh,” Bog says, and that is not even close to being a sufficient response, but that one word is really all that he can manage.

Something of the awe he’s feeling must come through in his voice, though, because Marianne looks up at him again, looks at him with her heart in her eyes.

“Every day,” she says, “every day, I wake up and I’m looking forward to seeing you, and I miss you when you’re not there; I always think—if Bog were here—and what you’d say and how you’d react to things and if you would laugh, and when we are together—I have so much fun with you; everything we do together, it’s better when I’m with you; it’s better because I’m with you. I feel—I feel strong when I’m around you, but I also feel like I don’t—have to be strong all the time, like it’s all right for me to—that probably doesn’t make any sense—”

“—tonight,” Bog manages to say, voice tight, “in the ballroom. When I threw down my sword, you—you stepped in front of me.”

Marianne blinks at him.

“—yes, of course,” she says.

Bog laughs, soft and amazed.

“There’s really no—there’s really no ‘of course’ about that, Marianne. You were—you were protectin’ me.”

Marianne looks confused, now.

“Yes, of course I—”

Bog shakes his head.

“No one’s ever done that for me, Marianne,” he says. “Not since I was a child. Nobody’s ever thought that I might need protecting. So I’ve never—been able to need it. And so you doing that for me—”

He stops, reaching out to stroke Marianne’s hair. She leans into the touch, taking a step towards him.

“—it makes sense,” he says quietly, looking down at her. “What you were sayin’, about knowing that you don’t have to be strong all the time. I know what you mean, Marianne. I feel that way, too.”

A smile dawns on Marianne’s face, slow and shy at first, unfurling like the petals of a flower in the sun. She reaches up to put her hand over his, and presses her cheek to his palm.

“You’re really in love with me,” Bog says wonderingly.

He feels Marianne’s blush beneath his palm, her skin going warm.

“I am—ridiculously in love with you,” she says with a wry smile. “Extremely in love with you. Embarrassingly so. Are you ever going to kiss me again?”

Bog laughs as he bends to kiss her.

He’s still laughing when their lips meet, and Marianne makes a growling sound of mock annoyance and bites his lip. He jerks slightly, surprised at both the bite and at the way it sends a shock of heat through him.

He bites her back, and Marianne moans. Bog makes a noise of satisfaction and kisses her more deeply for a long moment before pulling away. Marianne makes a sound of protest that melts into a sigh of pleasure as he kisses his way down her throat, running the claws of one hand lightly down the side of her neck.

“Mm,” Bog murmurs. “Now, where were we?”

He bites her neck and Marianne gasps. Bog trails his fingers over her clavicle to the hollow of her throat, hooks a claw beneath the collar of her dress.

“Oh, I remember now,” he says, voice dark and wicked.

He pulls away to smirk at her.

“I was just about to tear your clothes off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to be continued.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments! They are really encouraging and very much appreciated. I know this chapter took longer than the rest; I hope it was worth the wait!


	19. Chapter 19

Marianne hears herself make a pleading kind of noise, and she tilts her head back, arches her neck, begging without words.

Bog’s smile sharpens, and the heat smoldering in his eyes makes her knees a bit weak.

He draws his fingertip slowly down the center line of her body, claw slicing through the dress from her throat to her waist and scratching oh-so-lightly over her skin.

The material of her dress on either side of the cut curls down and away, baring a strip of her skin from the hollow of her throat to just below her navel.

Bog makes an appreciative noise, takes hold of the material on each side of the cut, and pulls them forcefully apart.

Marianne gasps at the suddenness of the gesture, and at the feeling of cool air across her skin as the dress tears the rest of the way down the skirt, leaving the entire front of her body bare.

Bog’s gaze rakes down her body, and then back up again, and there’s a look almost of hunger in his face as his eyes meet hers again. He lets go of her dress and trails a single fingertip down from the hollow of her throat, across the top of one breast, claw dragging over her skin, not hard enough to hurt, but with just enough pressure to make Marianne gasp. Bog traces down the outside of her breast, and then across the underside, and then he draws his clawed fingertip up the inside of her breast, the path of his touch curving towards the pink-tipped center of her breast. His claw catches just slightly as it brushes her nipple, and Marianne gasps again.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, and rolls her nipple beneath his thumb.

He draws his other hand up her body from the top of her thigh to her other breast, claws scratching gently over her skin, leaving lines of pleasurable almost-pain in their wake. Bog cups that breast in his hand and Marianne arches her back, pushing into the touch.

“So beautiful,” he says, voice so rough it’s almost a growl. “I’ve wanted you for so long, tough girl.”

Marianne hears herself make a soft noise, almost a whimper, and he smiles at her.

“Turn for me, Marianne,” he says.

Marianne swallows and does.

She feels his lips press against the back of her neck and then the pinprick pressure of his claw at the base of her neck, where her dress begins.

“— _oh_ ,” she gasps.

His claw slices through the material of her dress, scratching down her spine, down the sensitive skin between her wings and Marianne cries out.

Bog’s hands are on her shoulders, then; she feels thumbs hook beneath the material there and then tear upwards through the material.

Marianne feels him take hold of each side of her dress and pull sharply, hears the petals tear. The material of her dress slides down her body, falls to the floor.

Bog puts his hands on her shoulders again, slides his palms down to her wings, over the tops of them. They shiver at the touch, pushing up into his hands. He presses his thumbs against where the skin of her back joins her wings and Marianne moans at the sensation, and then moans again as he moves his thumbs down and inwards, towards where her wings join the center of her back.

His thumbs rub little circles there and Marianne feels Bog’s lips press briefly to the top of each wings.

She’s panting for breath, she realizes distantly.

When she feels Bog draw the tip of his tongue over the inside juncture of one wing and a claw over the other, her breath catches on something that’s almost a sob of pleasure and she very nearly loses her balance.

Bog drops a kiss on her shoulder, then her neck, then her ear.

“Spread your wings for me, love,” he says

Marianne gasps, and then can’t stop herself from whimpering in dismay as he steps back from her.

Her body feels almost as if she’s on fire, every nerve alight and singing. When she spreads wings for Bog, she can’t tell if the sensation of air moving across them feels blissful or tortuous.

Bog draws his fingertips over the top edge of each of her wings, following the curves of them upwards, careful not to use his claws, and Marianne can’t stop the shivery flutter that goes through her wings, can’t stop them from lifting up to press more fully into his touch.

He takes a sharp breath and his hands go still—surprise, Marianne thinks, or maybe he’s just worried about her wings catching on his claws. It’s not until her wings are still again that he draws his fingertips down the curves of her wings again, towards her back. He stops with his hands there, at the junctures of wings and skin.

“—please,” Marianne gasps out, “please, please—”

“Please, what?” Bog says, and there’s nothing teasing or coy about his tone. “Tell me what you want, Marianne; let me give it to you.”

“Your claws,” she says, “what you just did, but—with your claws this time, please—”

She hears Bog take another sharp breath, and then he’s silent for a moment. Marianne turns her head to look over her shoulder at him.

When their eyes meet, the desire in his eyes steals her breath.

“You’re going to have to hold still, then,” he says.

“Yes—” she says, “—still; I can hold still—”

Without warning, still watching her face, he brushes his fingertips—still no claws—up across the edge of her wing. Marianne cries out, her wings giving another involuntary shiver.

“Yes, clearly,” Bog says dryly.

She gives him a dismayed look, but he laughs under his breath.

“Try kneeling on the window seat,” he suggests, running a single fingertip over her wing, making it tremble. “You can hold onto the windowsill.”

Marianne moves to the window seat, going to kneel on it, but Bog touches her shoulder lightly.

“Here—” he says, reaching past her to rearrange his robes on the window seat, so that they’re covering the stone for her.

Marianne kneels on the window seat and leans forward, resting her crossed arms on the windowsill. The night air is cool against her skin, and she shivers slightly. Bog strokes his hand down the center of her back and she shivers again.

He runs the fingertips of one hand up over the top edge of her right wing, still not touching her with his claws. It is easier, bracing herself on the windowsill like this, easier to control the way her wings want to flutter.

Bog takes her wing between two of his fingers, his hand turned so that only the back of it touches her, with his claws curled carefully towards himself. The pressure of his fingers is glorious.

“Try moving this wing,” he says, “but only a little. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Marianne attempts to flutter the wing in his hand, but her wing only tugs against his grip, held in place by the pressure of his hand.

“Oh,” she gasps.

“Good,” Bog murmurs. “Does this feel all right, Marianne?”

“It feels so good,” Marianne says, tugging against his grip again.

She gives a little moan and Bog laughs breathlessly.

“Tough girl, you are a marvel,” he says.

She feels the tip of one claw at the nape of her neck, feels him draw it down her back, and then up again.

“Hold still,” he says.

And then he slides the tip of his claw over the top edge of her wing.

The sensation is perfectly on the edge of pain and the sound that Marianne makes is very nearly a sob. She clings to the windowsill as he draws his claw back down the edge of her wing.

“Is this good?” Bog asks.

“Yes,” Marianne moans, “yes; don’t stop—”

Bog gives a low, dark laugh.

“Oh, I don’ plan to,” he says, and draws his claw back down her wing.

“Oh—”

“Let’s switch wings, now,” he says, moving his claw away.

He lets go of her wing and takes hold of the other one, holding it just as carefully.

Marianne tugs against his hold deliberately and feels a jolt of pleasure go through her. Bog puts his free hand on her back again; the weight of it is wonderful. Marianne arches her neck back, eyes fluttering closed.

“Hold still,” Bog says, gently admonishing.

He draws a claw over the top edge of her second wing and Marianne cries out, her grip on the windowsill tightening. He draws his claw back down towards her back and Marianne moans, and then—

“ _Oh_ —!”

Those are his _teeth_ , she realizes dizzily, his _teeth_ at the base of her wing, the sharp pinprick of his fangs against her.

Marianne’s thighs are slick with how wet she is; she can feel her heartbeat at the point of pleasure between her legs, and if she wasn’t clinging to this windowsill, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from touching herself there.

Bog takes his teeth from her wing, letting go of it as well. He kisses her neck and Marianne gasps.

“Turn around,” he growls, lips pressed to her ear.

Marianne lets go of the windowsill; her hands are shaking. She turns on the window seat, intending to stand, but her knees are shaking, too, and she’s not sure she could keep from falling. Marianne looks up at Bog, ready to ask him—ready to beg him—

Bog smirks at her and then goes to his knees in front of her. He pushes her knees apart, then pulls her slightly forward, to the edge of the window seat.

“Wh-what are you—?”

“Should think tha’ was obvious, tough girl,” Bog says. His smile turns even more wicked.

“I—oh!” Marianne’s words cut off into a gasp as he leans forward and licked her.

Her fingers tightened around handfuls of the robes she was sitting on.

His tongue is— _oh_ —the texture of it—it’s rougher than a fairy’s, and it makes her nerves sing with pleasure as it drags over her.

“Ohh,” she says, falling back onto her forearms, still holding onto his robes. “Ohh—yes—Bog—oh that’s so good—”

She closes her eyes and tips her head back, panting for breath.

“Yes—yes, just like that—please— _ah!_ ”

Her eyes fly open as she feels him bite her, the light pressure of his teeth nothing like pain.

“Yes—don’t stop! _Ah_ —”

He starts to lick her again, faster and more assured this time. Marianne looks down the length of her own body, wanting to see him, wanting to see—

His head between her legs and his hands on her thighs, holding them in place easily, and the rough line of his spine, and the iridescence of his wings and—

Pleasure builds in Marianne like heat; she realizes she’s arching her back, that she’s rocking her hips up towards his mouth.

Bog pushes her legs further apart and scrapes his teeth down her lightly, and then wraps his lips around that little bud of pleasure and sucks hard.

Marianne cries out loudly, hips jerking as she comes apart with pleasure beneath his mouth.

It takes a moment for the lights to stop bursting behind her eyes.

Marianne pants for breath and looks at Bog again.

He’s on his knees still, grinning at her. And looking incredibly pleased with himself.

One of his thumbs moves, stroking her thigh, and Marianne shivers, already wanting him again, never mind her climax only moments ago.

“Do you have any idea,” Bog says, “how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that, Marianne?”

“I—”

“A very,” Bog slides his hands slowly up her thighs, “very long time.”

He stands, looking down at her with heat in his eyes.

“May I take you to bed now, Marianne?” he asks.

“You can _take me_ anywhere you want,” Marianne says breathlessly. “The bed, the window seat, the wall—”

Bog gives a surprised laugh.

“The wall?” he says, sounding intrigued. “Really? How would I even— _oh_.”

He picks her up, easy and sudden; Marianne gives a squeak of shock and clings to him, wraps her legs around his waist automatically. Bog spins the two of them, takes two steps forward, so that her back is pressed against the wall.

“Oh—” Marianne gasps.

“Like this?” he murmurs, looking down at her.

She arches her spine, pressing into him, pressing the base of her wings and the space between them hard against the wall.

“Yes,” she moans, “yes, like—oh—I was—thinking about this earlier.”

“Earlier?” Bog says.

He’s holding her with one arm easily; his other hand slides up her side to cup one of her breasts.

“Earlier when?” he asks.

He rolls her nipple beneath a clawed thumb.

“Ah—earlier—in the corridor,” Marianne says, “told you—I was thinking about getting you—out of those robes while—while I was helping you put them on.”

“Really?” Bog says, sounding both scandalized and delighted, “while we were in the _corridor?_ ”

Marianne squirms against him, the friction of his scales against the sensitive skin of her sex somewhere between glorious and maddening.

“Yes,” she says.

Bog shifts his weight, grinding against her and Marianne gasps.

“In the corridor,” he says again, his voice deeper and rougher than usual. “Anyone could have come around th’ corner and seen us like this.”

He grinds against her again, continues to move like that, a slow, almost languid rhythm.

Marianne moans, her fingers tightening on his shoulders, her nails biting into his scales.

“They wouldn’t have stopped us, though,” Bog says as she writhes against him. “They wouldn’t have dared.”

He smirks at her as Marianne’s gasping breathes get louder, more uneven, almost sobs of pleasure, now.

“It’s our palace,” he says. “Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Marianne says, “Yes— _yes_ — _yes—!_ ”

Her voice breaks as pleasure breaks over her again in a wave.

“Perfect,” Bog murmurs, watching her. “Look at how perfect you are, Marianne.”

Marianne clings to him, trembling.

“Please,” she says, “please, Bog—take me to bed; please, I need you—”

Bog kisses her, hard and deep, and then turns and walks the two of them towards her bed.

He puts her down carefully on the petals, but doesn’t follow her immediately, just stands there looking down at her. Marianne makes an involuntary whimpering noise of need.

“Not sure if your bed is gonna live through this,” he says, holding up a clawed hand and raising an eyebrow at her.

Marianne’s breath hisses through her teeth.

“I don’t give a damn about the bed!” she says, “ _I’m_ not going to live if you don’t touch me soon!”

Bog laughs and kneels on the bed between her legs.

“You,” he says, sliding his hand down her body from her throat to her abdomen, “are terribly impatient; do you know that, Marianne?”

“Yes,” Marianne says, and then, when he slides his hand between her legs, says, “Yes,” again, in a very different tone.

Bog makes a satisfied noise.

“—Bog,” Marianne whines. “Come on, please!”

He spreads her open with the fingers of one hand, begins to stroke her with the fingers of the other.

“Ah—! Please!”

“Don’ worry,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice, the absolute bastard, “I’ll be careful.”

Marianne makes a noise of mingled pleasure and frustration.

“Bog,” she says again, “—oh—please, I want—ah—I want you. Please—please—”

Bog takes his fingers away, puts his hands on the bed on either side of her, and leans down to kiss her, first her panting mouth, and then her jaw, her throat, her ear. Marianne cries out.

“All right,” he murmurs, sitting up, looking down at her with love and affection in his expression. “Come here, then.”

Marianne sits up as well.

“There’s a reason goblins don’t much go in for clothes,” he says. “Most of us don’t really need them. Unclothed is one thing—naked is another.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Marianne says, breathless and impatient, “your sexes are hidden; they have to be uncovered. Show me what to do.”

Bog laughs.

“ _This_ , you know?” he says incredulously.

He shakes his head and turns around, so that he’s facing away from her, then turns his head to look over his shoulder at her, smiling.

“Your hand,” he says, “touch me between my wings.”

Marianne reaches out and strokes her hand down the length of his spine. Bog makes a low sound of approval deep in his chest.

“Ah—good girl,” he says, “just like that, love.”

Marianne moves to touch the bases of his wings with both her hands and Bog makes a rumbling noise of pleasure.

“Can I ask—ah—” he says, “ _why_ you know about th’—uncovering—of all things?”

Marianne feels her face heat.

“I found a—um, a really old—medical textbook,” she says, “in the library. When I was twelve. And I was…curious.”

Bog laughs.

“You really are a marvel, Marianne,” he says.

Marianne ducks her head and kisses him between his wings. He groans, so she does it again, then draws the tip of her tongue over the edge of one scale.

Bog’s breath hisses through his teeth and he turns again, leans back so that he’s reclining on his forearms, with Marianne kneeling between his spread legs.

“Your hand again,” he says, looking at her with heavy lidded eyes.

He inclines his head, gesturing down between his legs. Marianne puts her palm flat against him there, strokes down.

“Harder than that,” he says.

Marianne strokes harder, more pressure, grinds the heel of her hand against him.

Bog makes a noise of pleasure.

“Use your nails,” he growls.

Marianne scratches down his scales, runs her nails beneath the edge of one.

“Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

Remembering his reaction to her mouth between his wings, Marianne leans down and licks him between his legs, then scrapes her teeth over his scales. Bog groans her name so she continues, scraping her teeth over him, licking, biting.

She feels his hand slide into her hair, feels his fingers tighten there, and Marianne shifts her weight slightly, leaning on one hand so that she can use the other to scratch her nails over him as she continues to lick and bite.

And then—

Two of the plates between his legs shift. Marianne makes a noise of delight and Bog takes his hand from her hair. She sits up, watching the transformation avidly.

The two plates shift apart, the upper one sliding upward, sliding beneath the plate above it, the lower plate sliding down in the same way. Underneath the scales—

Two slightly raised patches, violet in color and glistening with moisture, sit on either side of what Marianne thinks is the main part of his sex. It’s—that, the main part, is really three parts, she sees, all of them folded together, almost like the bud of a flower.

As she watches, the black upper and lower parts bend outwards, folding away from the center part, which rises up out of him.

Marianne feels her eyes go wide.

Oh, wow. That is—the textbook in the library had definitely not prepared her for this. She’d been expecting—well, something basically like an fairy phallus, except perhaps slightly bigger. In reality, it’s—

—well, it’s definitely bigger, that’s for sure. And—shaped similarly to an ordinary cock, all right, although the head is more pronounced and there are ridges on the shaft, almost like the grooves of his scales.

The upper and lower parts, the ones that folded away from his cock—those are what give her the most pause, honestly. They’re—they look like rose thorns. Blunt ones, yes, and bent back away from his cock, for where she’d—ah—be? But very definitely like thorns, all the same.

Marianne glances up at Bog, who is watching her face.

“We don’ have to do this, Marianne,” he says gently. “You know I’m not gonna be angry.”

“No!” Marianne says. “No, I want—I just—” She gives a flustered laugh. “That book—really did not do you justice.”

Bog gives her a crooked little smile.

“Ah, well,” he says. “I’m not exactly—normal for a goblin. Too much mixed blood, along with the fairy ancestry.”

There are shadows in his eyes again, for all that he’s smiling, and Marianne’s heart twists.

“Different isn’t bad,” she says. “I _like_ different. Can I—?” She gestures at him.

Bog doesn’t look completely convinced, but he laughs quietly, his smile widening into something a little more genuine.

“If you like,” he says.

The thorn-like bits are the one that make Marianne the most nervous, so that’s what she touches first, hooking a finger beneath the top one. It—curls a little, in response to her touch, moving inwards and then outwards again. Bog makes a quiet noise and Marianne feels her eyes go wide again.

Oh, now that is _interesting_.

Extremely interesting, especially considering where this thorn thing is going to be pressed against her when she and Bog are joined.

She leans down and licks the lower thorn. Bog makes a startled noise that turns into a low groan when she takes the thorn into her mouth. This one moves, too, rocking slightly against her tongue.

Yes, this is definitely not something to worry about, Marianne realizes. She lets her mouth slip off of the thorn and looks up at Bog, grinning.

“Marianne,” he says in a rough voice. “Oh, love, you really are gonna be the death of me.”

She laughs and bends down again, licking over one of the violet patches this time.

It’s more slick than before; she thinks it must respond to stimulation and desire in much the same way her own sex does. The texture of the patch is slightly rough beneath her tongue, and it tastes—not like she’s expecting. Good and—sort of—like the smell of crushed leaves, really.

And the taste of it sends a pleasurable kind of zing through her. She licks him again and another thrill of pleasure makes her shiver. Another stroke of her tongue and another little burst of pleasure, then another and—

Bog’s hand is in her hair, tugging lightly, pulling her away. Marianne, panting, looks up at him.

“Bonding pheromones,” he rasps. “Supposed to—make you feel better the more we do this.”

“Better than this?” she says breathlessly. “Are you sure?”

Bog laughs, his hand relaxing in her hair.

“—did you want me to stop?” Marianne asks.

Bog shakes his head at her, smiling.

“No, I didn’t want you to stop,” he says. “I just wanted you to know. So that you weren’t—confused about what you were feelin’.”

“I am really definitely not confused,” Marianne murmurs.

Bog laughs again and Marianne takes advantage of his distraction and leans down to wrap her lips around the head of his cock.

His breath hisses between his teeth and his fingers tighten in her hair again. Marianne hums, pleased, and slides her mouth a little further down him.

She can’t manage to take him very deep, but Bog seems to find what she’s doing more than acceptable. He lets her work him like that for several moments, Marianne managing to take him a little deeper each time. Finally, though, he pulls at her hair again.

Marianne sits up and smirks at him. Bog growls at her and suddenly Marianne finds herself on her back, with him leaning over her. She grins up at him, completely unabashed, and Bog narrows his eyes at her and growls again, baring his teeth.

He moves quickly again, down her body, and then he pushes her legs apart and puts his mouth on her again.

“ _Oh!_ ” Marianne arches up into him. “ _Ah_ —Bog—!”

He licks her in a way that seems almost merciless, not letting up or slowing down. It’s not very long before she’s on the edge of ecstasy again, gasping and crying out.

“Please—” she moans, “please, please—I want—ah—I want _you_ ; come on, Bog— _ohh_ —please— _please—!_ ”

When he takes his mouth from her, she almost sobs, but then he’s hovering over her again, looking down at her with burning eyes. He slides his hand up her leg, then puts his hand behind her knee and pushes it up, bends it back towards the bed, pinning it there and tipping her hips up.

“Tell me,” he says, voice a rough snarl. “Tell me you want me to take you, Marianne.”

“Please,” she begs, “please, Bog; take me; please, I need you to take me—”

“There’s my girl,” Bog growls.

He pushes into her slowly; Marianne arches her back, her mouth falling open.

It doesn’t hurt, but there is an unfamiliar kind of ache to it, a feeling that her body is rearranging itself for him, around him. She gasps at the sensation.

And then _finally_ he’s fully inside her, and Marianne gasps at the sensation of that as well. He stays there for a long moment, looking down at her, watching her face.

She feels the top thorn of his sex move against her and Marianne gasps, hips twitching up.

Bog moves back just slightly, rocks into her again and she moans. She feels him shudder, sees the way pleasure flickers in his expression. He’s still careful, though, as he rocks into her again.

“Yes,” Marainne says, “yes—please—”

Bog shudders again, and this time he doesn’t pause the motion of his hips, continues moving, pulling back and pressing into her again and again.

The rhythm he sets is achingly slow and gentle, and it feels—incredible, it’s so good, but it’s also not enough.

“Please,” Marianne moans, “please, _more_ , Bog—”

“Tough girl,” Bog says, voice tight. “Beautiful wild thing.”

He thrusts into her harder and Marianne cries out.

“Yes! Oh, yes!”

She grasps at the petals of her bed and arches her back.

“Good,” she babbles, “oh, Bog, it’s so good— _ah_ —wanted you for so long— _ohh_ —yes, like that; don’t stop—”

The top thorn of him rocks against her with every thrust, and she’s pretty sure she’s slick not only with her own pleasure, but also with his, because of the shivery sensations singing through her—bonding pheromones, he’d said, and _oh_ , but this is so much better than she’d imagined—having Bog moving over her, having him inside of her, taking her like this—

“Marianne,” Bog says looking down into her face with an expression of adoration, “my Marianne, my brave love.”

Marianne had thought she felt like she was on fire earlier tonight at the ball, but this—oh, this is what it feels like to burn. She feels like she’s glowing, like she’s made of light.

“Yes,” she gasps out, “love you, Bog; love you so much—”

She cries out sharply as his next thrust sends her right to the edge of climax.

“Marianne,” Bog says, “there now, Marianne—go on, sweetheart; I’ve got you.”

He thrusts into her again and Marianne screams his name as she comes.

Marianne gasps for breath and looks up at Bog as her climax comes to an end. Pleasure still slides through her in waves with the motion of his hips, and the look on his face—

She reaches up and touches her fingertips to his cheekbone, cups his hand in her face. His breathing, already ragged, goes even rougher at the touch.

Marianne smiles up at him, soft and bright and incredibly happy.

Bog gasps her name and she feels him come apart for her.

* * *

 

“You were right,” Marianne murmurs, later, both of them lying together in the wreckage of her bed.

Bog makes an inquiring noise.

“My bed really didn’t live through it.”

He laughs.

“We can go t’ my rooms,” he says. “In a minute.”

“Are we going to kill your bed next?” Marianne asks.

Bog groans theatrically and she laughs.

“You,” he said, “really _are_ going to be the death of me. My bed’s a lot sturdier than yours, tough girl; I’m gonna need more than a minute to recuperate sufficiently for tha’.”

She laughs again.

“Sturdy is good,” she says. “I like the sound of sturdy. We can bring it in here tomorrow.”

Bog pushes himself up on one elbow, looks down at her, smiling.

“You plannin’ on stealin’ my bed, then?”

Marianne smiles back at him.

“Well, I was planning on you sleeping in it with me,” she says, then bites her lip a little uncertainly. “I mean—if—if you want?”

Bog’s smile goes gentler.

“I do want, Marianne.”

He reaches down and brushes a lock of her hair out of her face, then trails his fingertips along her jaw to her lips.

“I love you so much, tough girl,” he murmurs.

Marianne kisses his fingertips, then reaches up to pull him down to the bed beside her again. She curls up close to his side.

“—wait, does this mean we have to get married again?” she asks as the thought occurs.

Bog laughs.

“No, we don’t have to,” he said. “I told you, th’ ceremony isn’t really necessary.”

“Mm,” Marianne says. “You did say that, didn’t you.”

“Would you—would you mind so much, Marianne?” Bog asks, his voice sounding uncertain to Marianne’s ears.

She pushes herself up to look down into his face.

“Why do you ask?” she says. “Do _you_ want to have another ceremony?”

“I—ah—well—” Bog gives her an embarrassed look. “I—would like that, yes. But only if you don’ mind.”

“But why?” Marianne asks, smiling at him bemusedly.

“I’d—well, I’d—like people to know,” Bog says, “that I asked you and—that you said yes. That you—chose me.”

Marianne’s smile slowly widens.

“You,” she says, “are such a _romantic_.”

Bog makes a face at her; Marianne sees his cheeks flush. She laughs.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, Bog; let’s get married.”

Bog smiles at her brilliantly; Marianne sees her own joy reflected in his face.

She leans down and kisses him, both of them smiling as she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting! I appreciate all of your support so very much. And I hope you all enjoyed the final chapter of the story!


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